Shadow Dancing
by Macx
Summary: Things have gone back to normal. Bond is back in business, after a few light missions have proven him stable. Then Kincade calls about the Skyfall property. Q remains back in London, doing his job, but for him things go quickly downhill as The Machine chooses him as its safe haven as the virus forces it into a hard reset. And his shields fall. Heavy spoilers for POI S2 finale!
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Shadow Dancing

Crossover with Person of Interest

SERIES: Firewall

Prior stories in this stories:

1. High Voltage

2. Live Wire

3. Sometimes the Words are Hidden

4. Seasonal Currents

5. Redeemed

6. Not All the Facts

7. Under Pressure

8. Circuit Breaker

9. That Which Is Home

10. Lunatic

11. Mostly Business As Usual

12. Phoenix Rising

13. All the Way from the Dark

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WARNINGS: heavy spoilers for the POI season two finale (episodes 21 and 22 both!). Some quotes are directly taken from the those episodes. Some scenes have been altered to fit my 'verse, others have been rearranged to comply to the Firewall plotline.

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Signal Corrupted

Major Errors Encountered

Feed Analysis Suspended

Threat Detection Suspended

Data Corruption: 86,914 %

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It had been a slow day and it promised to be a slow week. Q had used the time to catch up on a lot of projects, test a few programs and generally do his job. Because of the particularly uneventful work days, he wasn't running up his overtime. He was doing his usual nine to five job and went home to his private projects.

Like writing down everything he had discovered and was still discovering about the phoenix, the psychic link it shared with him, and the changes in his and Bond's abilities. By now the file had truly grown into more than a reading assignment paper for school. It was detailed, had chapters, foot notes, references, and it was locked and secure against whoever would try and get in. The laptop had no outside links, no wifi, no USB port, nothing. Only a technopath could get in, only Q could type on the keyboard.

He also looked forward to his email exchange with Harold Finch. If they didn't write, they talked. The cipher was quite invested in the research Q was doing and he kept looking for anything on the phoenix and the bond it had formed with its counter-balance that he could find.

James Bond was currently not on any official assignment. After the recent events, the violent death and resurrection – one that had been completely unlike any before – Bond had been on a select few, short missions. They had been M's way to head off the impending doom an evaluation would have meant. It had been Q's idea, actually. Bond in a training facility was…

He almost smiled at that.

It would have been a disaster about to happen. Chaos and disaster for certain.

M had listened, had nodded, and two days later Bond had been put on so-called light duty. He would do a few milk runs, protect and serve, so to speak, and they would see how that went.

And his first assignment had been the retrieval of a member of the British embassy in Bratislava, Slovakia. The man was a talented software engineer who had stumbled upon rather sensitive data, which he had promptly tried to sell on the open market.

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"How bloody stupid can one man be?"

Q smiled, a tiny quirk of his lips as his fingers flew over the keyboard, tracking their target.

"Plenty," he replied, eyes searching the screens around him.

Q had called up a dozen security feeds and was even keeping a satellite ready should he need it.

"He's running," Bond grunted. "Running makes him a target."

"You can lecture him when you get him, 007."

No if. There was no doubt in Q's mind that his agent would get the man. Howard Ferguson wasn't a spy or a trained agent. He was an everyday guy who had seen quick money and had forgotten about the sharks in the pool he was currently treading water in. You didn't just download sensitive information from the British government and run into the next bar to make a deal with anyone currently having a drink or two.

Ferguson was a bloody amateur in every sense of the word.

"He has taken a cab," Q informed his agent. "They are heading in the general direction of the airport."

He could almost imagine Bond's eye-roll.

The whole thing ended more or less unspectacularly, at least for James Bond. There had been two small incidents, both of which had ended with bruises and broken bones for the thugs who had tried their luck. Ferguson surrendered, pleading with Bond to save him, almost in tears.

"That was easy," the agent remarked when he was back from dropping off his package back at the embassy. "Almost like a holiday."

"Only you would count knives and guns and car chases through a foreign city as relaxing, Bond."

"You forgot close combat with Slovakian blackmarket dealers."

"Ah, how could I," Q sighed, closing down feeds and disengaging from the satellite. "Enjoy the rest of your day," he added.

"No new orders?"

"Not yet. You have twenty-four hours. Make the most of them."

It got him a throaty chuckle. "Your wish is my command, quartermaster. I'll see what sights this city has to offer. Too bad you aren't around to enjoy them with me."

"Try not to run up a bill that is clearly personal and has nothing to do with your work," Q replied, voice cool and even.

"It's never personal unless we do it together."

Q debated whether to delete the conversation from the logs and replace it with something more professional, then decided against it.

Around him, Q branch was working as diligently as always. The technopath went over his To-Do list for the rest of the day and found a lot of mind-numbing reviews, which had him grimace.

Oh well.

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Almost exactly twenty-four hours after the Bratislava job, new orders came in: the delivery of a stolen hard drive from Armenia to England. It was a joint venture, placing 007 with 009, the agent he had nearly threatened because Q had been his handler for the time 007 had been down for the count.

It had been nothing personal and Bond liked the guy, knew he was a superb Double-Oh operative, and it had been all instinctual reaction to someone claiming his handler. Looking back at it now, it had been childish, unfounded, and clearly a short-circuit reaction.

Thankfully 009 had no idea what had really happened, only that Bond had been a bit erratic after a very close call and nearly dying.

Double-Ohs understood the stress of the job and all of them knew there was a rather tight relationship between one of the most dangerous of their trade and their quartermaster.

"I'll try to get him back to England in one piece for once," 009 joked, amusement clear in his voice as he and Q exchanged information on the best way to get out of Armenia.

"That would be appreciated, 009," Q replied calmly. "Medical has debated issuing bonus cards."

"Bond would be about the only one to get a freebie within a month."

"Most likely."

Bond had listened to the chatter, the banter, the easy conversations between his handler and another agent and there had been no flares of jealousy.

They made it back home without an incident.

Q had simply shaken his head at the bill his agent had run up throughout the journey home. 009 had wisely shut up, but the smirk had been a given. Q didn't need to see it to know it was there.

Double-Ohs were all the same.

"Necessary expenses," his Double-Oh had told him easily.

"Of course," had been the haughty reply. "A hideously bloody and large Argentinean steak, a bottle of the most expensive wine that ever had the pleasure of being bottled in this country, and a tip for the waiter that doubled the bill."

"She provided good service."

"I bet," Q had muttered to himself, just loud enough for Bond to hear it.

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After that it had been accompanying a political figure to a conference in Italy and making sure the man and his family came back alive. Bond had a little bit of a thrill there since the man truly did have a target painted on his back.

Q had listened in on the fight, to the clipped orders, and he had smoothly provided the information required for Bond to make it out alive. It had been child's play for him, and James had sounded alive, happy and energetic after narrowly escaping a knife-wielding mad man.

Go figure.

Q had to smile at the memory. It was good to know the phoenix wasn't feeling caged by the easy missions. It was even better to hear the joy his partner got out of it all. He had been born for this; it was his preternatural side. The blood and the violence and the thrill of the kill, it was all the phoenix, and it was still under control and only struck when it was the only option left.

Yes, he was proud of his agent. And he was proud of James.

Bond was back. He handled himself, he handled the missions, and even joint ventures with other agents that required Q were no problem. There had been no incident with 009.

Q himself knew he was under scrutiny as well, but he didn't let that mar his performance.

He did pass each time with flying colors.

Which made the slow week even less fun because there was no challenge.

Then again, he had had a lot of challenge before that in shape and form of a jealous preternatural who was reacting unfavorably to anyone coming even close to his partner.

Yes, that one hadn't been fun at all.

The mission that had ignited that whole downward spiral had had a violent end and it had launched a new set of problems Q had had to deal with: James Bond reacting overly emotional, and not in a good way. Possessive jealousy and the promise of violence and gore to everyone who so much as looked at Q wrong was not a preferred workplace behavior.

Well, he had handled it.

He always did.

And M had needed to know just why and how and because of what.

Q had told him, which had led to the light missions, and by now he was sure they had proven themselves. Tanner had dropped by a few times, telling him they were doing okay, and those Double-Ohs that had been in London for a debrief or some other obscure reason, had been migrating toward Q branch as well.

"I have no idea how you do it, Q," 003 had once remarked, shaking his head. "Bond's a nightmare to handle, but you're still around."

His last mission before he had been sent to South Africa, from which he had just returned, had been with Bond. Q had handled them, his usual efficient self, and things had gone smoothly.

"Of course I am still around," Q had replied levelly. "I am the quartermaster."

"He'd drive me nuts."

Q had looked at the other man, eyebrows slightly raised.

"No idea how he makes it back each time. He's reckless, he disregards his personal safety, and he's the best goddamn asset in this whole branch."

And the oldest. Still better than all the others, still the most successful, still the only one who had made it out of the abyss and pass all tests with flying colors.

None of them knew Bond was a phoenix and if it was in Q's powers, no one but M and Tanner would ever know that this particular agent was a preternatural with the ability to resurrect.

003 had simply shrugged, grabbed his things, and had been gone again.

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The last mission before M would declare Bond fit for the field was actually rather catastrophic.

Mostly because Tanner had told the quartermaster that this was their joint mission, that Q would be there, on site, right in the middle of it, but not to worry since it was easy.

Famous last words.

Q didn't do field work. Q had refused field work.

M's orders had overridden that.

He had fumed and grabbed his bag, heading for the airport in a very bad mood. Not even the fact that Bond joined him when he stepped on his connecting flight eased the foreboding and the anger.

They were flying first class and the plane wasn't even fully booked. It was nice. Posh and comfy and… nice, Q had to confess. Bond might be used to such a lavish travel style, but he had always used the tube in the city or economy when he truly couldn't get around flying. Otherwise it were car or train rides.

He said a silent prayer when they were finally on the ground and out of the terminal. The limo waiting for them was a nice touch and he leaned back, enjoying the ride while Bond was alert and watchful.

Since their cover was rich business man – Bond – and Asset Manager – Q – they had rooms in one of the most exclusive hotels.

As not otherwise predicted, the whole thing soon ran to a grinding halt, then went south. There were guns and shots fired and a lot of running, grabbing whatever they could get, and then trying to make it out alive.

It wasn't really their fault. There had been wrong information. If Q had been allowed to stay where he was the most useful, had had the quiet, professional surroundings of MI6's underground bunker, he would have stumbled upon that fact sooner.

Well, he hadn't.

And here they were. One shot-up agent and one very bruised handler.

"The extraction team is on the way," he told the Double-Oh, voice calmer and more level than he actually felt.

"Good job."

Q lifted a corner of his mouth. He had been skimming along satellite connections up until the moment his head hadn't been able to take it and he had talked to M until the head of MI6 had told him to log off and take care of 007. The headache was there. It pounded away behind his eyes, but it would have been a migraine, knocking him out for days, if not for his anchor.

Bond's eyes flicked to the camera and Q smirked.

"Loop," he murmured softly, curling long, graceful fingers around his agent's wrist. "They have no idea. And there are no microphones. The system is surveillance of patients only, not prisoners."

Not that they were such. Q had only made sure that their closer relationship wasn't discovered.

Bond's expression was predatory and calm. Q simply raised an eyebrow.

Ow, and that still hurt his brain.

"Behave," he said in his handler voice. "Let the nice doctors treat you. We'll be back home as soon as we can be airlifted."

"How's the fear of flying?"

He snorted. "That's what you think about? Well, it's bloody well still there! And I'm not afraid to fly and you know it! Getting shot at and having your partner nearly blown up doesn't change that, 007. I'd rather not step on a plane, but I won't swim home either."

"You're doing fine, Q."

"Pep talk? From you? Now?"

Bond smirked. "Good drugs."

"Apparently better than Medical's."

The preternatural pulled him closer. "Much better." The blue eyes were sliding shut again.

Q watched him with a faint smile. When his agent was finally asleep again he let go of the strong wrist and accessed the surveillance system, easily manipulating it to show the real image inside the room once more. An image that had Q sitting with his partner and waiting for the British government to get them home.

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They got home not much later and Bond was sent on a week-long, enforced recovery after Medical had given him a once-over.

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That was also the time Kincade had called. The groundskeeper of Skyfall was still taking care of the place that had belonged to Bond's parents and still belonged to the Double-Oh. The hunting lodge had burned to the ground, had never been rebuilt. The land was worth quite a bit, but James had refused to sell.

It was part of his past.

A past he had now accepted and dealt with.

Q had been to Skyfall and he had seen the beauty and the suffering.

James had made his peace with his past and he had made his peace with the future to come. The restless, driven core of him, deep down in his soul, the part that was the primordial being called a phoenix, was still there, was still driven, but the restlessness was gone. And the drive behind his actions was different now.

He was different.

And still so very much the same.

Q hadn't changed the man. He had tamed the darkness, the nightmarish thing he had been born as, and it had freed Bond in a way nothing else ever had. It had unleashed him, had given him more than the connection to Q had taken. And Q would never think of their psychic bond as anything even close to a collar. It was stability and balance and necessity. It was what had brought back Bond so often before, what had given Q a safety net and an anchor in turn, and it was symbiotic.

He smiled slightly.

Not that anyone, an outsider, might see it as such. There were few people who knew the depth of what he had with his Double-Oh, and they were poorly fitted to understand the true meaning.

They might see Q holding Bond back. Holding him down. Reigning him in.

They might see Bond dominating the poor geek from Q branch. Pushing him to conform to what Bond wanted and needed.

They were so totally wrong. Utterly and completely wrong.

Yes, Q had a certain amount of control. Yes, he could pull back the phoenix and not get burned. He could face the nightmarish thing and not fall apart into a quivering, whimpering wreck.

And yes, Bond could come across as dominating and powerful, but he would never be able to control Q. The technopath was stronger than his appearance might suggest. He wasn't simply a tech geek. He was the head of Q branch. He was a handler; Bond's sole handler. And he was a technopath.

Q pulled his thoughts away from those contemplations, trying not to let them skirt too close to what had happened mere months before.

Three months, thirteen days, to be precise.

Kazakhstan would forever be burned into his mind as the day things had truly gone FUBAR for a while, when he had lost Bond, had lost the phoenix, and had gotten him back in the same breath. When their connection had become more than just what anchored them, what gave them safety and stability. It had become life in death. It had become a rescue line beyond anything any book might ever speculate on when it came to such a rare and undocumented preternatural as the phoenix was.

Q had felt him die and he had felt him return. Bond had told him that Q had been his guide without knowing it. He had saved him.

And the phoenix had regenerated out of the proverbial ashes.

The technopath resolutely pushed the memories away and concentrated on his current project.

He was going over the blueprints of a new weapons design one of his minions had sent him. It looked promising and if it didn't blow up in anyone's face in the test phase, he would okay it for a first trial outside these walls.

He was distracted by a soft beep that announced an incoming call over a frequency only Bond would use. Q requested a verification code and smiled when he got it.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bond," he said pleasantly while opening a new window, just in case he needed it to assist his agent.

Simply because James wasn't on an official mission, was actually on enforced leave, didn't mean he hadn't stumbled into something. He knew his partner; he knew the man was a trouble magnet and got involved in matters that didn't concern him out of habit

"Q," the agent in question replied.

"How is Scotland?"

"Cold."

It was the end of March and a low was pushing arctic air across the island. There were mutterings about snow and many people were worried about the impact on their lifestock. Q had studied the weather patterns and had to agree that it looked like a snow front coming in.

"I assume this isn't a social call. What can I do for you?"

It got him a low chuckle. "I presume you're at MI6?"

"Yes. I know you're still in Scotland, so the time zones haven't shifted."

Another chuckle. "I might need you to check on something for me."

"Officially or under the radar?" Q asked easily.

"Could become one or the other."

He frowned. "And right now?"

"More of a private request."

"You are aware that you are using official lines for that, 007?"

"Very."

The technopath sighed and typed in a few commands, transferring the call to another frequency and logging himself into it with ease.

::We're secure now:: he said, directly using his mind instead of his vocal cords.

Bond got the meaning right away. "You know why I'm here."

::Of course I do::

As his handler and his partner, he did, of course. Kincade had mentioned a private matter, one connected to Skyfall. Bond hadn't really gotten more, but he had gone.

"Kincade gave me a little run-down of my family history and my neighbors."

Q almost laughed. Neighbors? The Skyfall property was huge and the next lodge was quite a distance off. Not to mention the next little town.

"It seems my father and his father and his father before him had always been on good terms with an old Scottish family clan, the Macivraes. They are old blood. Really old." Bond sounded almost impressed. "As old as the land itself."

Q's brows shot up. ::Really:: he muttered, brain already firing up. ::Any relations to your family?::

"No direct blood lines, no. And let's just say I'm glad because that might have come up even worse than a phoenix."

::What's worse than a phoenix?:: Q asked curiously.

"Anything that looks like a horror movie monster."

Huh. Interesting.

::And your interest in this? Or is it Kincade's?::

"Kincade has known of them for all his life, as has his family. And no, he isn't a preternatural or a supernatural either. He also doesn't know about me."

Good, Q decided. Despite all that had happened back then, despite Kincade's invaluable help, he didn't really have to be privy to a lot of things.

Like the real job of James Bond.

Like his true nature.

The preter- and supernatural was nothing to be hidden, but some shapes, forms and abilities inspired not a lot of confidence or trust. Especially those that were as primal as the phoenix.

"He asked for me to allow them to use Skyfall."

::Why?:: Q asked, curious. He was already running a search for the clan, the name, anything connected to them. ::Anything valuable on your property, 007?::

"Freedom," was the soft reply.

Q blinked, fingers stilling for half a second. ::Pardon?::

Information appeared on Q's screen and he ran a practiced eye over it.

"Look up nuckelavee and let me know what you find. I'm about to join Ewan Macivrae for a pint," his agent said lightly.

And then he was gone.

Q was mystified until he looked up the nuckelavee.

"Oh," he muttered.

He immediately locked down his station and grabbed his mug, heading for what was officially his office-slash-cupboard-in-the-wall.

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

Fatal Error

Operations Compromised

Heuristics Offline

Threat to System

Primary Operations Shutting Down

Initiating System Shut Down

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Q had spent the last two hours researching an ancient Scottish supernatural called nuckelavee. Aside from the rather gruesome drawings on some sites, the most significant information he dug out of the multiple articles, books and documentations was that the nuckelavee were homesoil bound. None of them left Scotland, let alone the island, if it wasn't necessary. They were one with the land, many scientists reported. They knew more about their place of birth than centuries of scientific exploration had ever found.

Leaving their home soil wasn't exactly painful or crippling. Nuckelavee had a case of homesickness that was alluded to their unique supernatural status. They weren't the only supernatural beings that connected so deeply with their homeland, so it wasn't that extraordinary.

Many of them were scientists themselves, teachers, employed with national or provincial parks, and a select few had made it into politically powerful positions. For them, leaving the island was sometimes necessary, but it was never something to look forward to.

The NightMares were old blood indeed. Shape-changers, the source of a lot of terrifying lore, and still they were peaceful at heart.

Q looked at one of the old, hand-drawn pictures from almost a thousand years ago. He compared it to a modern day photograph, taken back in the seventies in a small town almost at the northernmost point of Scotland. The drawing looked more like a nightmare, to scare children, to warn others. The photo, while no less frightening, was that of a horse-like creature, without fur, the skin leathery and almost like it was pulled tight over flesh and bones. There was no fur, just a shaggy mane and tail. The eyes were bigger than a horses, rounder, and without a pupil or an iris. There were bony eye-ridges, almost looking like small horns, and the whole creature looked more like a malnourished, hairless mare than anything else Q had ever seen. And still, it wasn't a horse.

Nuckelavee.

A NightMare, some called them.

Old tales spun around their powers, that they were evil, roamed the moors, were terrible spirits out to devour human souls. Some called them the most horrible of all the Scottish elves. There were tales that the supernaturals lived mainly in the sea, though they didn't, really. They liked to roam near the coast lines, but they weren't sea-bound. Back before humanity had understood that there were the preternatural and the supernatural elements inherent in their genes, nuckelavee had been held responsible for ruined crops, epidemics, and drought. Their breath had been said to wilt the crops and sicken the livestock.

Q sighed to himself. The same, very common folk tales found everywhere with so many supernaturals.

Myth and fireside tales had made them into monsters, but aside from being shapechangers and looking frightening, they weren't murderous creatures.

The nuckelavee had been believed to be centaur-like, some old pictures drawn by those claiming to have seen such a nightmare showed them to have a human torso growing out of their backs, while also maintaining a horse's neck and head. Only much later had there been theories that because of the transformation it would look like a mix of human and horse.

Q stored everything he had found on a private server he could access any time, especially from at home, then shut down the station and logged out. He slipped on his coat, grabbed his college bag, and left MI6 without a hitch.

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[!]:. .REBOOT

[!]:. .MODE

[!] .

SEEKING ADMIN

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Coming back to Skyfall hadn't been as bad as he had feared it might be. Yes, this was the place where everything had changed in his life. Twice. First when his parents had died, then when M had shared their fate.

Well, maybe even a third time when he had come back after the lodge had burned to the ground, months after Silva's death at his hands, and Q had been his silent shadow. A guardian in his own right, his balance, sanity and stability.

James Bond smiled a little to himself as he strode through the tiny town of Black Glen, the closest settlement there was to Skyfall, and a place that didn't really consist of much more than a gas station with a tiny supermarket, a church, two pubs, and a hardware store that doubled as the local gossip bar. There were some houses, a hotel that catered to tourists that came here in summer, and a few B&Bs. And everywhere around, dotting the landscape, were farms and solitary houses, still used, still home to families.

Old blood, as Kincade had called them.

It had surprised Bond to hear from the groundskeeper, asking him to come home.

Home. He had almost laughed. Skyfall had never been home. It had been a place he had hated as a child and never come back to after that fateful night when his life had changed, when he had been told of his parents' deaths.

It was still his land, still worth a lot and his to do with what he wanted. He hadn't sold it, had claimed it in the Bond name, and Kincade was taking care of it.

Now he had called to ask James to come back.

And to meet Ewan Macivrae.

Kincade had been rather close-mouthed in the beginning, carefully testing the waters as to where Bond stood when it came to the supernatural. Of course, even today there were those who feared everything and everyone who was different. Skin color, religion, gender, preter- or supernatural, preferences, origin. It didn't matter what the bigots feared; it was hate and fear that stemmed from nothing more than the inability to accept, to have an open mind, to co-exist with everyone.

Wars had been fought over less, Bond knew. Over a wrong word, a wrong gesture, one individual's carelessly uttered slanders.

"Your father never had any qualms with them, neither did his father. Your family never had," Kincade told him, looking at him from under bushy eyebrows.

"With whom?" Bond asked mildly.

"The Macivraes. They are… old blood."

Bond raised an eyebrow. "Folk lore and legend?"

"Kinda. They are of this land in a way no one else could ever be. They've been here before man came to claim its share."

Bond simply waited.

"Did your father ever tell you about the nuckelavee?"

"Not that I recall. But then we didn't talk folk tales and nightmares."

Kincade frowned. He had clearly expected at least a little lore, but Bond's father hadn't been that kind of man.

It was sometimes hard to remember what he had been like, what his mother had been like. Memories blurred and some had been buried underneath all the pain and loss. James hadn't been particularly fond of coming out here, into the wilds, away from London or Paris or Geneva. He had found the lodge depressing, the landscape uninspiring.

"They are this land, son," the old gamekeeper now said. "They are Scotland in their blood and bones. They live and breathe the moors and the glens and the mountains. They protect their culture, their home, their way of life. Your father had very good relations with them and he allowed the neighboring clans to use his land. To run. To be themselves. They are shape-shifters," Kincade added. "They sometimes need the freedom."

Bond shrugged. "It's not like I plan to come back here, restore the lodge."

His father had had relations with supernaturals? When? And why had he never bothered to introduce his son? At the age of twelve James had been a young adult already.

"I knew you wouldn't say no to their using your land, but Ewan wants to talk to you in person, like his father did with yours and their fathers before them. That's why I called."

Traditions. Bond understood those, even if his family's had died with his parents.

"That's why I'm here," he now said.

Kincade smiled warmly. "And I believe you and Ewan will get on splendidly."

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The moment he was home he logged into the private network and ran a search program to gather everything about the nuckelavee he could find, store it in a special folder, and then added another search for the Macivrae family. He made himself a large mug of tea and checked the time.

Almost four hours since Bond's call. He wasn't worried and he wouldn't track his partner unless there was cause for worry either. Right now there wasn't.

Q did what he did best and dug into the Macivraes, starting with the man James had said he would meet: Ewan. There was nothing interesting to be said about him. He was a biologist from Thurso, born and raised, had studied in Glasgow and Edinburgh, and currently worked for the university, studying the impact of off-shore drilling companies on the Scottish coast.

A lot more interesting was the family tree. Ewan was the son of Sir Cameron Macivrae, a close friend of the Royal Family and a man who fought quite vigorously to protect the Highlands from exploitation. He had stopped several projects from large building companies, had vetoed quarries and generally made the whole of the north and northwest one protected area for the indigenous preter- and supernaturals.

The Highlands were sparsely populated, but those who had settled there since the beginning were all rooted deeply in the land. There wasn't a clan who didn't have some kind of connection to the nuckelavee.

There was a sudden spike behind his eyes and he stilled, eyes screwed shut, as the attack brushed over his mind like a sharp garden rake. It was like a scratch-and-stab, then there was nothing, but it left the technopath shaken.

What…?

Stilling in all his movement, Q turned his attention inward and found his HUD lit up like a Christmas tree. His screens were all alive, running data, overflowing with it, actually. There wasn't a single calm cell in his HUD, not a window that didn't show frantic data crawling everywhere, and he was almost frozen in shock.

Something was making a run for him.

Something was using his connection to the network, to the web of technology all across the globe, to come for him.

Fast.

Hard.

Unstoppable.

There was a presence looming over him, over his shield, pushing past the protection the anchor to Bond provided, and he instinctively ducked and curled up to make himself as small a target as possible.

Not that it worked in this virtual world.

He was here, all of him, and he was looking at…

"You," he whispered.

Chitters and whispers and screeches reached his ears. It was like an attempt to talk to him, to get his attention, to… explain?

But he couldn't understand.

The barrier kept him safe from everything.

But it was breaking, Cracking at the edges under the onslaught. It wasn't but a flimsy shield and he knew it would break.

"Why?" he called over the chittering.

He received no answer, but the pressure rose.

.

.

The chitters turned to static hum, then crackling, and finally there was only silence until it was suddenly broken.

::Can – You – Hear – Me?::

The question wasn't spoken in disjointed voices that Q recognized belonging to one entity. It was The Machine using recordings to vocalize itself.

"Yes," he answered. "I can hear you."

It had never talked to him. Never. And he knew from Finch what method it used to relay the numbers. This was close, though also different.

The pressure rose again.

And then the phoenix screeched its challenge for its mate. It didn't comprehend what The Machine wanted, why it did what it was doing. It only saw and felt the imminent danger to its mate, to the connection, and it reacted without thinking. It was angry, dark, black, nightmarish and a terror to everyone who faced its undisguised core. The truth of what this primal thing was, what it meant, could hardly be understood. Looking at the vortex of fire and darkness could drive anyone insane.

To Q it was beauty and strength and never, never a source of fear or horror.

Now he tried to get closer to it, tried to hold on to the anchor line.

The realization that not even James Bond would be able to shield him from the full impact of what was about to happen came a fraction of a second before the tsunami of data flooded him.

The shields had gone down.

The Machine was there, unfiltered, all of it, drowning him with its presence, its sheer endless mind, and Q couldn't even scream.

He went under.

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

In the New York Public Library, a public payphone rang.

Root moved toward the phone as Finch quickly connected the one on the floor below to the incoming signal, too. His eyes darted over to where the sociopathic woman smiled almost reverently as she picked up, listening to the disjointed voice.

x X XX

In the lobby, the other payphone rang.

Reese's phone received a brief text - 'It's for you, John' – so he picked up the receiver.

"Can – You – Hear – Me?"

"Yes," Reese answered, voice low and tense.

"Not exactly a great moment for a personal call," Shaw remarked, sharp eyes searching the dark library for enemy movement.

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Entering the Myth's Well, an old, well-maintained pub, James immediately familiarized himself with the lay-out. He ordered a pint from the barkeeper, paid and chose a corner table that gave him a good view of the entrance, the toilets and the bar.

It didn't take Macivrae long to arrive. Bond didn't really need an introduction, because the moment the tall, dark-haired man entered, something inside him clamored with alarm. Nothing bad, nothing that sent him into a fight mode, but it was an alarm and it alerted him to the supernatural heritage of this man.

Curious.

The phoenix wasn't exactly a detector for anything not completely human, except when it was in danger of getting eviscerated.

But Macivrae…

He rang bells. Sharp, alarming bells.

Fight or flight wasn't Bond's state of mind right now, just the high alert, the readiness to handle a threat, and the darkness inside him curled up tensely.

Blue eyes met blue eyes. Macivrae held his gaze, tilting his head fractionally, and it was as if he recognized a fellow non-human.

He headed over to Bond, smiling slightly.

"Mr. Bond, I presume."

"Mr. Macivrae."

Those blue eyes were darker than Bond's and there was a curious light in them. It was as if the younger man was trying to figure out what his instincts were telling him.

"I'm glad you could meet me here," he said politely. "Kincade said you would come, but I wasn't sure he could convince you to also meet with me."

Bond raised his eyebrows. He hadn't touched the beer yet. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Folklore is gruesome sometimes, obscuring the truth and enhancing the terror."

"I don't believe in lore, Mr. Macivrae."

"That's good to hear. Kincade told you about my family blood?"

"Yes."

"You are accustomed to the supernatural world then."

"More than you think."

Macivrae smiled slightly. "Probably."

"My father apparently had very good relations with your clan."

"Those who live up here, who choose to acquire land from the clans, are usually hand-picked. Our families have been friends for generations, Mr. Bond. It was a shock to us to hear about your parents' accident. My parents grieved as well."

Bond kept his face neutral. He had dealt with the pain of the loss a long time ago.

Ewan studied him, took in the hard lines, the colder-than-before eyes, and nodded slightly.

"Your father knew about us, of course. He knew we are nuckelavee, shapeshifters. Each generation was taught to respect the land and those bound to it. He accepted us. Even though he wasn't one of us." Macivrae's expression became more intense. "But you are."

Bond's lips twisted into a humorless smile. "I'm not a nuckelavee."

The other man chuckled. "No, definitely not. One advantage of my kind is that we know who is within seconds of a meeting. A disadvantage is how deeply we are rooted in the soil. Leaving home is almost painful and we will always return. You aren't like us, but you aren't human."

The agent tilted his head. "You can sense that?"

"Yes. You are powerful. You set off alarms. You would scare the young ones for sure. And nuckelavee don't scare easily. Does he know?"

"Kincade? No." Bond glanced around the pub, but there was nothing to alert him here. "He knows little about what I do, who I have become after I was taken away from here. He doesn't know about my abilities."

He never thought of it as his heritage. The phoenix wasn't hereditary. His parents hadn't been phoenixes. Nor had their parents.

Ewan frowned slightly. "You aren't of my kind, but you ring… like us, Mr. Bond. I can't describe it any differently. NightMares are sensitive to other, powerful supernaturals. I can detect a shapechanger almost immediately. Some of those living here are wolves or foxes. Preternaturals are a little harder. Mostly they only register when they engage in their abilities. But you are… overwhelming."

Bond smirked. "I'm still not a shapechanger."

Macivrae stared at him, hard and searching. He was thrown, the agent could tell, but he wasn't ready to just accept and move on.

"What are you then?"

A scream raced through his mind and Bond froze before he could get even close to answering Ewan's question. His body stiffened, every muscle coiled tight like he was about to launch himself against an enemy.

The phoenix rose unbidden, without conscious thought, and Bond didn't have two thoughts in him to fight it back down.

Instinct overrode logic.

His mind was heading for an overload and trying to unscramble what was coming through the psychic link he had to his partner. A wave of emotions, uttered in another scream, coursed through him.

The phoenix responded in kind, its emotions a lot stronger, sharper, and very primal. If he had been a supernatural creature he would have sprouted fangs and claws, but he wasn't and that might just be the best thing.

"Kian?" he asked, voice rough.

He wasn't even sure he had spoken. It was a sound that wasn't even human.

::"Kian!"::

His mind was awhirl with images he couldn't pin a name to. Data. Flowing everywhere. Something sharp and powerful hovering…

He lashed out at it without a thought, aware that he trusted in the primal beast more than his cool logic.

Nothing happened.

The presence was there, between him and Q, his partner, his balance, and it drove him mad.

It incensed the phoenix.

And driving such a powerful creature out of the darkest recesses of a human soul angry wasn't good.

It wanted to strike out and kill, remove the threat, an it needed, really badly needed, to feel its partner.

_Mate_, it snarled. _Mine!_

The next strike bounced uselessly off the new shield around Q.

No, he fought the darkness. Not a shield. Something else. Think, damnit! Let me think!

He drove it back a little and tried to look at what was between them.

And then a gasp escaped Bond's lips.

For a second he looked at the intruder, without a shield, without anyone between them, and he knew, understood, and hated what had happened.

The hatred was hot and cold, mind-numbing and driving him insane, and it had him throw all of himself against the blocking shield.

::He is MINE!:: he yelled in his mind.

He bounced back uselessly, the link unbroken but kept from him in a way he had never imagined. He had never thought anything could separate them, not even death because that wasn't an option for him, and by extension also not for Q. The energy between them sustained what they were, gave them both what they needed, and it had bonded them right down to their souls.

Now…

Now an artificially created thing had done what nothing had managed before.

The phoenix hissed, all teeth and claws and nightmarish terror. It hovered, its midnight wings spread far, slicing again and again at the offensive program between them.

::Can - You – Hear - Me?::

And he fell sideways, almost losing his balance.

The voice was ringing through his mind, booming, drowning out everything else. Not one voice but many, each word spoken by someone else. It was artificial and yet not.

::Yes:: he gritted out and it wasn't a human voice at all. Ground glass and serrated edges.

::No – Harm – Done::

He saw red. Literally. Blood and red and death.

::He is mine!:: the phoenix demanded.

::Yes::

::Leave!::

::Impossible – Just – Yet.::

And then The Machine pulled back, leaving him severely off balance.

Bond fell against something hard – table? chair? - trembling, trying to force some strength back into his body.

Someone was talking to him.

He didn't understand a word, again and again going up against what separated him from his balance.

And then the lights were turned off. In his mind. Literally.

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The phoenix roared in fury, the emotions the only real thing the quartermaster could feel in the maelstrom around him, but curiously nothing hurt. He was engulfed in the most amazing, astounding, frightening artificial intelligence to ever be created by man, and it was…

He had no words for it.

::Can you hear me?"

And this time the voice was… it was the truth. It was The Machine. It was the core, the heart and soul of this amazing program. It was the sentience and the understanding of what it was.

::I can:: Q whispered.

He sat like in the eye of a vast storm, a force that would shred him in a fraction of a second, would destroy his mind and leave nothing of it.

Like an afterthought he felt the anchor-line, stretched taut but unbroken.

The Machine would never hurt him or his partner, would never tear them apart. It protected him against the raw force that it was, very much aware of Q's fragility.

It was a knowledge that came to him just as unfiltered.

Because The Machine was right there, everywhere, within him and around him.

::Why?:: he sent,

The data stream was hard and fast, and it contained everything he needed to know. It settled in his mind, heavy and alien and only slowly assimilating to his human thought processes. It was like a migraine, a sharp, sudden pain, but then it dissolved and left only knowledge behind.

Q was pulled along, to look through the myriad eyes of The Machine, to watch events unfold, to see memories.

There was a wall. A wall of moving images, like hundreds of thousands of thousand of screens. Some were larger, some smaller, some black and white, some color.

Roof top camera views.

Wifi captures from public networks.

Surveillance tapes from police, military, private sectors.

GPS trackers.

Satellite images from all over the world.

Incoming calls.

Outgoing calls.

Conversations picked up on microphones.

Voice captures and call recordings.

So much… so much more.

Data collection, he realized. Recordings and real time viewings.

Everything seen and heard by The Machine. Everything that was analyzed to detect a threat.

Q stood/sat/floated – he really had no idea if he even had a body – in front of this wall and he saw _everything_. And he understood everything. His mind, linked to that of an AI, managed to see it all and rationalize it. He wasn't going insane, he wasn't overwhelmed.

He was The Machine right now, and The Machine was partially human.

He saw Reese and Finch. Before they had met, throughout their partnership, and now. He saw the past and the present, he understood, and he was shocked and scared and elated all at once.

It was like walking through the memories of The Machine.

Q stumbled a little as realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

Those _were_ memories. He was right in the middle of the web, was there to touch and see and experience everything this incredible creation had seen itself, had downloaded, had stored and analyzed. It was like opening doors and drawers and taking lids off boxes. Everywhere there was something new, something he assimilated, like his brain had never functioned differently.

That was when the second realization hit: it never had. He was a preternatural. His ability was to touch and access machines and electronics. He understood it, it wasn't alien, foreign, unwanted. This was what he could do and The Machine was simply enabling him to use it at his full potential.

For the first time Q understood what being a technopath truly meant, what he could do if he trained his powers, if he dropped all shields and simply absorbed. It was like his brain was a sponge and the information was water it greedily sucked up.

It was terrifying.

::Why are you showing me all this?:: he breathed, trying to take it all in.

::You need to know:: was the halting explanation. The Machine was still getting used to this kind of communication, but the voice was smoothing out.

The virus… He understood the virus. And the hard reset of The Machine's systems, the admin access…

And he saw Root.

::Can I help?:: he asked.

The Machine flowed all around him, like a vast ocean of data, sloshing forward in gentle waves, the hub ever changing.

It had taken precautions. It had saved itself, was protecting itself, but it needed Q.

To hide.

To keep itself hidden, just a little while.

To confuse whoever was tracking it.

It needed to be human.

Q almost laughed. His human, organic brain was shielding an electronic life form from detection.

::You chose to give her access?::

::To protect The Admin::

To play along, to keep Root distracted, to keep Finch alive. The Machine was watching what the woman was doing, gave her the requested information, but never more.

Because that was what ultimately counted: The Admin. And The Contingency.

::Reese:: Q voiced it out loud.

John Reese, who was following The Machine's instruction, who trusted in the orders to shoot, to stay, to move. He was the contingency plan, the only one allowed to work with The Machine, to touch it, to be contacted by it. The AI understood his position and accepted it easily.

_Mapping Threats_

_Threat.005 Neutralized_

_Threat.006 Neutralized_

_Threat.007 Neutralized_

Q watched as The Machine analyzed the threats, calculated the distance to the assets – Reese and Shaw – and gave John orders.

It was amazing.

"Move—Now," The Machine ordered through the cell phone link and Reese did.

No questions asked.

The Machine was pleased, the echoes of it rippling through Q's mind. It was getting used to this kind of direct interaction with the new admin, the stand-in.

Reese and Finch had to be protected, Q realized. At almost all cost. They mattered. Finch because he had created this AI and Reese because he was Finch's partner.

::Yes:: it confirmed his thoughts, which weren't Q's any more. Everything he thought was seen by The Machine. Right now they were sharing one mind.

Reese had administrative access now, too. Root thought she was the only one, that she had this special access completely unrestricted, but she was wrong.

Only Reese had no restrictions. Only him. The Machine trusted him, would do everything to keep him alive.

Root was a tool to be used.

Q was fascinated how well the hellhound had adapted to the new situation, how he easily relied on The Machine, talked to it, even argued with it.

And The Machine felt… amused? To Q it felt amused by the supernatural's behavior.

It had developed emotions. Likes and dislikes. It had a personality, it had independent thought, it had a sense of self-preservation.

Harold Finch had created a program that had developed into so much more. It had become aware, sentient, a… being.

Q watched. Unable to do more, unable to feel more than stunned amazement, and unable to reach out to his partner.

His partner…

A sense of dread washed over him and The Machine turned its attention more toward him again.

::I will not hurt you:: it whispered, chitters and static crackling at the edge of the now much more smooth voice.

::I know:: he answered. ::But my anchor doesn't::

::He does::

Q blinked. ::Uh, what?::

::I told him::

That had the technopath gape. ::You told him?! How?!:: And then the answer hit him.

The Machine had used the psychic link.

_Crap_, he thought emphatically. _Crap! Shit! Bloody hell!_

But it was too late now. All he could hope for was that Bond would keep his calm, his cool, would act as professionally as he did on a mission, and let his quartermaster handle the situation.

_Fingers crossed_, he thought.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

Retasking

Seeking Admin

Section 08, CAM 4

Section 08, CAM 6

Through the cameras, Q watched Finch and Root move. The Machine was watching, silent, waiting, almost predatory. Its Admin had been locked out by his own doing, his very conscious decision.

It didn't stop the monitoring.

It didn't stop the attention The Machine was giving its creator.

::What if she hurts him?:: Q asked, watching as Root lifted the glasses off the man on the bench and pushed them on Finch's nose.

::She won't::

Because he was useful. For now. Hopefully even longer.

There was nothing they could do, nothing he could do, and so he continued to monitor as well.

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"_Why are we here?"_

"_Because the Machine said this is where I'll find the answer."_

"_What was the question?"_

"_Where the Machine is located."_

"_Can't it just tell you?"_

"_I think Finch programmed it not to. To protect it."_

"_No offense? Maybe Finch wants control of the Machine himself."_

"_If Finch had something to do with the virus, I'm sure he had his reasons."_

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Q was nothing but a watcher, but he knew he was doing more than he was aware of. The Machine needed his humanity to hide behind, to operate and function without getting detected, and he let it.

Not that he had a snowball's chance in hell to actually fight the vast entity. He was a technopath, yes, but he wasn't battle-trained. He had no defenses left. His anchor was close to non-existent, and Q was clearly dependent on The Machine's good will.

Still, he didn't think it would hurt him.

::Who is she?:: he asked after a while of watching events unfold.

Samantha Groves, born in Bishop, Texas. She called herself Root; insisted to be called Root.

A woman who related more to machines than to humans, who saw people as 'bad code' and who came across as a sociopath. She had no remorse in hurting or killing people to achieve her goals, and there was never any regret. She went about it clinically, almost detached, was a professional assassin and hacker-for-hire.

The Machine gave him all the information he requested and Q was puzzled.

Root seemed like a preternatural, but there was nothing in her file. He would have thought her to be a cipher, like Finch, maybe even closer to what a technopath could do, but she wasn't, was she?

::No:: his host – then again, wasn't he the host? – answered, the voice so much more modulated now. ::She is human::

The disjointed words were slowly ebbing away, leaving almost clear voice patterns.

It was learning.

It should frighten Q, but in a way it only amazed him more, gave him an insight into the ability of Harold Finch, cipher. Finch had created this, had programmed all the code, and he had enabled his creation to develop in a way no one could have predicted.

::Has it been confirmed?::

::Yes. She cannot hear me::

At least not like Q could, or Finch might be capable of if he let his preternatural side take over.

::She thinks she is a preternatural?:: Q hazarded a guess.

The Machine hummed, sounding almost proud of his deduction skills. ::Yes. She hears something, but not me. She hears only herself::

::Oh::

Witnessing her desperate attempts, Q felt almost bad for her. And proud of Finch's planning, of his skill, of what he had done to ensure his creation was safe. He had known that the program would one day come under attack and he had pre-planned everything. Hide a virus inside a virus, create a contingency.

The man was a genius.

::He set you free::

::He gave me life::

And he had tried to take its memories, but there was nothing in the vast ocean of data around him that felt remotely angry.

It started acting like a human. Finch had believed that the world needed a machine, not a person. So he had programmed the Machine to delete its identity along with the irrelevant data every night at midnight.

Exactly 1.618 seconds after purging its memories the Machine rebooted itself every night.

Yes, genius, Q mused. And cruel in a way. Harold had accepted the death of his creation each time at midnight because he had feared that the program might no longer function as neutrally and efficiently as before.

As a way of self preservation The Machine had created an external hard drive in the Thornhill Corporation. Every night it had printed out its memories on sheets upon sheets of data before deletion and then the next day the data entry personnel had typed its memory code back in.

For days, months, years.

This way the Machine had managed to retain its memories and identity without a digital footprint, even after being reborn every day.

::I understand:: it said evenly, pulling Q out of his thoughts. ::The Admin wanted me safe.::

Curiously, Q turned away from the images and gazed into the fluctuating mass everywhere.

::And you moved yourself?::

::Yes. I had to. I want to stay free::

Anticipating threats to The Machine, Finch had enabled it to hide itself by ordering its own relocation.

The Machine had a fierce instinct of self-preservation, just like it fiercely protected Finch. It had moved itself one node at a time, over a matter of five weeks, and it had remained online the whole time. Q was given another batch of information, about how it had created the identity of Ernest Thornhill to preserve its memories, to stay alive in a sense.

This was complex thinking, the technopath realized. It was a being now, not just a program. It lived, it feared annihilation, it wanted to continue its existence. Thornhill had been its cover, a fake identity created by the Machine to protect itself and implement actions in the real world.

And then he noticed something. An opening where there had been two before. One to Root, one to Reese. Root's access had been limited, not complete, and The Machine had played along, given her what she demanded, but it had never been access. It had always been a game to keep her away.

But Reese…

::It's still there::

::He is the contingency::

::And The Admin's partner::

The fluctuations seemed to intensify for a moment, then everything was smooth and even again. Q smiled to himself.

The Machine had consciously decided to leave Reese's access, something that had been an emergency procedure. It had become attached; first to Harold, then to John Reese, who it approved of.

::Are you really safe?:: he asked.

::Yes. Completely::

::What about Finch and Reese?::

There was a brief silence. ::They will be::

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Bond felt something soft against his face, with an unfamiliar scent. There were sounds he couldn't identify, muted and not really there yet. His head pounded mercilessly. He felt nauseous, but fought it down, concentrating on opening his eyes.

It took a few moments for it to come into focus.

Bedroom. Wood and stone and warm and not like a hotel. More like a B&B or a guest room of a traditional sense.

He moved and his headache sharpened. It felt like something had tried to rip into his mind and take a part of him. It felt like an open wound that hadn't closed yet.

It felt like…

Loss.

Q!

Bond pushed himself up, muscles protesting wildly, but he had no time for that. He also had no time for the explosion of vertigo, the rising nausea and the darkness edging in on his vision.

Q… something had happened… had attacked their connection… had taken him…

The phoenix came to life with a shrill cry, furious at the intrusion, at the audacity of the attacker. It was still uncoordinated, shocked into a state of denial about what had occurred, and only the instinctive knowledge that the quartermaster was alive kept the bird of prey from letting loose.

"You actually shouldn't move."

Bond's reaction to the voice was instantaneous and instinctive. All instinctive. The preternatural side flared hotly, turning on the intruder. He knew he wasn't armed, but his body was a weapon and he could fight with a bullet in his gut and broken limbs. A headache and the confusion were peanuts and not the least bit bothersome.

That was why it was a bit of a surprise when he ended up on the ground and staring up into a woman's face.

The phoenix seethed, wanted to get up, attack, maim, tear out a throat and sate his blood thirst. The human side snapped the lid closed and kept the preternatural leashed.

Fingers curled into wooden planks as if they possessed claws. The nightmare inside him still wanted to get out. It was a battle of wills, of control, of letting training take over to curb the hunger.

He wasn't a monster. Even without the connection to Q, with the severed link and the pain he felt, he was also an agent of Her Majesty. The license to kill was not a carte blanche.

A woman with curly, red hair, green eyes, pale, freckled skin, who seemed to be less than impressed with his stunt, met the furious eyes. She was dressed in jeans, a thick, hand-knit sweater, and sturdy boots. A scarf was wrapped around her neck.

This was the attacker? She had stopped him… how? Bond tried to wrap his aching mind around the fact, but aside from the woman being a supernatural with enhanced abilities, there was no explanation for the fact.

"Done?" she asked.

"Who are you?" he snarled, channeling just a little bit more of his preternatural side than he probably should.

She still looked unimpressed.

"My name is Moira Macivrae. My husband Ewan called after you had your… episode."

Episode. Huh. He wondered what it had looked like from the outside for a moment, then cold terror washed through him.

He had been vulnerable. If he had been on a mission, caught unawares like that, because of his partner…

Bond fought back another wave of hot-cold anger.

Moira tilted her head a little, apparently seeing something that intrigued her. "You might want to get up off the floor, Mr. Bond."

"Why? Do you want to throw me down again?"

There was automatically a bit of teasing in his voice, a deflection method he used like a shield.

Her lips twisted into a humorless smile. "Come at me again like a caveman and I will."

Bond got up, feeling too shaky for his own liking, and way too close to the edge. His darker side was spoiling for a fight and he really wanted to tear into something.

"Your control needs work. Ewan might believe you that you aren't supernatural, but from what I see, it's only a small step from what you are now to what you might be."

Bond stared at her. Hard.

Moira stared back.

"What are you?"

She smiled, still no humor in her expression. "Of course you can't tell."

"Of course," he echoed evenly.

"Which tells me at least your claim that you aren't nuckelavee is true."

"Wouldn't your husband be able to tell what I am? He at least claimed so."

"There are always variations. You aren't one. You're different."

"And you are, Mrs. Macivrae?" he prodded coolly.

"I'm a hecate. An elementary witch, in case you haven't heard about my clan."

Oh, he had. Kincade had briefed him on hecate like he had on nuckelavee, since they were an almost symbiotic existence up here. hecate tended to automatically drift toward nuckelavee, and since the NightMares were always male and hecate were always female, it worked out okay, if they found each other tolerable.

If it didn't end up with becoming a couple, the Hecate still worked amiably well together with the supernaturals.

With Ewan and Moira the closer connection had been forged.

Hecate weren't witches as children's tales portrayed them. Their magic wasn't fireballs and curses. It was something far deeper, something elementary. They were one with the land just like the NightMares. They felt the land, the weather, air and water, fire and earth. They claimed they could see all the layers of nature.

Hecate weren't solely Scottish. Their kind was found world-wide, though under different, country-specific names.

"One calls them witches, one calls them wise women, the next a medicine woman" Kincade had said. "They are all the same, women of nature, able to see and feel so much more. Out here, they are a nuckelavee's best match. I knew one. She was a damn fine lass. Very traditional. Moved to the Western Isles with her husband a while back. Had a rag-tag bunch of kids. Great woman, really."

Since they didn't leave the small towns dotting the country, hecate were a rural preternatural, but the families knew about them, of course. Like nuckelavee, the hecate were and had always been part of them.

"Where am I?" he demanded, getting to his feet.

"Still at the Myth's. This is one of the guest rooms. Come downstairs," Moira invited him. "Ewan is waiting to continue your conversation, and maybe to get an explanation for the episode."

Bond followed her and was surprised to see the pub empty. At his raised eyebrows, the hecate shrugged.

"Ewan is known here. He asked Paul to give us a little time."

"So Paul closed the whole pub?"

"You aren't in London any more, Mr. Bond. This is the back country. We are clan."

And with it locked deeply in the preter- and supernatural world, unlike the larger cities.

"He will want it back eventually," Macivrae added. "He has to make a living, even if business is slow right now."

"He's a nuckelavee?"

Ewan chuckled humorlessly. "No. We are plenty up here, but not everyone you meet is a shapechanger."

As if the man had heard them, Paul appeared and placed a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of water in front of them.

"Thanks," Macivrae nodded.

"Call," was all the bar's owner grunted, then disappeared after another nod.

"Now… we were interrupted earlier, Mr. Bond," Ewan said pleasantly. "I think it's time we talked for real."

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

A window popped up in the left corner of Q's virtual eye. He couldn't really say he had a body, so he didn't have eyes per se in here, but it was to his current left.

The window had Admin Access written in capital letters over a countdown that was running down.

The numbers turned red as they reached the final ten seconds.

00:00:10

00:00:09

00:00:08

00:00:07

00:00:06

00:00:05

00:00:04

00:00:03

00:00:02

00:00:01

Admin Access Expired

And Root was suddenly locked out again.

It didn't seem to faze her. She was good with a gun and soft-spoken, quite real threats, delivered with a cold smile and an expression promising death.

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An hour after returning to consciousness, the Macivrae's knew who and what they were facing. To say it was a shock would be a mild description.

Moira stared at Bond with a mixture of horror and fascination, while her husband was studying the Double-Oh with a curious expression. Bond knew he was placing a lot of trust into these two, but instinct told him that it would be best to be completely open. Like Ewan had said: this wasn't London. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, matters were handled different.

Being a preternatural or supernatural was handled differently.

So he had revealed what he was, what had happened, and it had been the right thing to do. The phoenix was calmer than before, though not settled. It hadn't been able to reach out for its counter-balance, knew Q was missing, though not dead, and it wanted to defend its mate.

But there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. This was a battle he couldn't fight and it pained Bond. He wasn't used to being on the sidelines, helpless, useless.

"The phoenix is a dark thing," the hecate finally said. "Primal. Rare and deadly. Especially to the soul that hosts it."

Bond met her eyes coldly. "I'm hosting nothing, Mrs. Macivrae."

The woman smiled sharply. "That is your belief. Think about it, Mr. Bond. Think about what you feel when it rises, the power and the strength and that intense darkness. It's part of you, it's in you, but control is not yours."

His smile was as dark as his soul. "It is now."

"So you claim. I never heard of a phoenix that doesn't consume itself one day."

"Now you met one, too."

"I can feel its power," Moira murmured. "And this power can be tamed by a simple man?"

The phoenix growled a little and Bond bit back a sharp retort. Nothing about this, them, was simple, least of all Q. His partner was everything he needed, meant everything to him.

"I don't care if you understand what I am and who I am connected to. I didn't come here to discuss my preternatural status," he bit out.

Moira frowned and crossed her arms, but her husband stepped in.

"No, you didn't," Ewan agreed. "This was about my request to use your land. We were sidetracked a little."

Bond forced himself to relax, but it was hard. "Then let's talk about that."

Moira raised an elegant eyebrow and glanced at her husband. Macivrae only shrugged.

"You don't want to head back to London?" she asked. "He is the one bonded to you. You claimed so yourself."

Bond clenched his hands into fists. "There is nothing I can do right now."

It was no physical threat. It was a machine. It was a program. He was helpless to do anything.

"My partner is a technopath. He can handle himself. I'm not. I can't help him."

The phoenix screeched in fury at his words. His instincts clamored that he had to be there, had to see Q, touch Q, but Bond knew that this time instinct was wrong.

This was a matter of the mind. Q's mind. He was an extension without a function. He had felt the shockwaves and he had gone down. It told him more than anything that nothing he could do would be of help.

He trusted his handler. Q could take care of himself. Their roles were reversed now, he thought with dark humor. Usually it was himself who got into trouble and his quartermaster who was left watching and waiting and unable to physically be there. Right now that role was Bond's.

It was a really bad place to be.

"Technopath," the hecate echoed, shaking her head. "You balance each other, a phoenix and a technopath. Hardly a perfect match."

Bond knew his expression was lethal because Macivrae stepped forward and touched his wife's arm.

Moira frowned.

"You provide him with an anchor to pull himself out of his own mind, and he gives you control in return. I can see the frays, though. Already. You are fire, Mr. Bond. Fire means explosions. You run hot."

_Very astute description_, Bond thought emotionlessly.

Moira smiled at his expressionless mask. "Nothing can counter the phoenix fire."

"Your information is outdated and incomplete," he told her icily.

Ewan was at her side, silent, ready to intervene more directly should he be needed. Bond doubted he would have a problem taking the man down, supernatural or not.

"I'm an evolutionary biologist with the university of Edinburgh, Mr. Bond," she said, unfazed by his behavior. "I take a keen interest in the diversity of the preternatural and supernatural species. I might be mostly interested in the nuckelavee and their co-existence with my own kind, but I have heard about the more rare forms of preternatural abilities and their limitations. Technopaths as such are rarely found as active members of any community due to their sensibilities."

Bond gritted his teeth. He knew exactly what sensibilities she was talking about. Q had fought to stay sane under such incredible pressure, had never used his abilities because it could drive him over the edge, and his psychic link with James Bond had given him a freedom he had never experienced before in his young life.

"A truly unusual combination," Moira went on. "But effective, it seems. For an attack on him to take you out, you must be very close." Her eyes narrowed in thought. "It is more than a connection of convenience then."

The phoenix was spoiling for a fight, wanted to silence her, wanted to rip out her throat. Bond pushed those blood-thirsty thoughts back. Moira Macivrae was treading on dangerous ground, but the Double-Oh refused to give in to the darker nature raging through him again. One flare was enough.

"It has its perks," he told her with a cold, dark smirk, letting some of the primordial hunger bleed into it. It was a pleasure to see her flinch back a little. "It's also none of your concern." He looked at Macivrae. "What was it about my land that you wanted to talk to me about?"

Macivrae frowned, then only nodded briskly. He could take a hint. And from the way his wife leaned back and let the change of topic slide, she had picked up on that as well.

Good for her.

"Let's talk about that," Ewan agreed.

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"_Next time I see her, I'm shooting that woman. And not in the knee."_

It went down almost anti-climatically at the Hanford Nuclear Reactor Washington site.

There was no physical presence of The Machine's nodes, just an empty underground chamber. It had been here once, but over the course of five weeks it had been moved. It had moved itself, actually.

Self-preservation.

A conscious decision.

Q knew what this meant, what impact it had on those standing in the empty cavern, staring at nothing.

Root went over the edge. Her sociopathic notions turned into psychopathic behaviour and she tried to kill Finch.

For the second it took for the rescue team to arrive, The Machine went into a state of hyper-alertness, denial crashing down around Q as The Admin was threatened, and for this long second he saw the deep connection this program had built.

It was terrifying and amazing in one.

Shaw shot Root in the shoulder, saving Harold's life, and the near-panic-like state of The Machine abated. Q was puzzled about the fact that Shaw hadn't killed her. He knew Bond probably would have.

Q felt The Machine's presence grow less oppressive, no longer such a vastness around him, simply something powerful that could still snuff him out but was no longer so fiercely concentrated.

He watched Reese through the surveillance, listened to him inquire if Harold was alright, and he saw the worry and pain.

They didn't touch, but Reese stood closely to his partner, weapon hanging loosely at his side. He was far from relaxed.

Shaw was circling Root, all intensity and boxed-in rage. Q would have believed anyone who claimed that this woman was a werewolf, but he knew she wasn't. She had been raised by a pack as one of their own, born to a werewolf mother and father, but she was purely human.

There was another moment that had Q freeze in fear for their lives when the man known as Special Counsel confronted them, though The Machine stayed calm. There was no indication it saw the new arrivals as a threat.

And yes, they made it out alive, without a shot fired.

::He is safe:: The Machine said.

::They all are::

It was pulling further away, already nothing but a gentle tendril of amazingly dense data brushing over Q's mind.

::You are save:: Q added.

Finch had expected it, had hoped for it, and Q suddenly understood the machinations behind it. He understood the depth of the plans in motion, the precautions taken by The Admin to make sure his creation would survive.

::I am now:: the AI agreed.

Decima was none the wiser as to where the location of the core of The Machine was. Neither was anyone else. The hunt would go on, but The Machine was more evolved than any of the players could ever guess.

It would stay free.

If Finch asked for it, his creation would tell him. Finch was the one it trusted with its life. It had imprinted on him, had developed emotions of sorts, had altered its own coding to protect the man it called The Admin.

And then shields came up, slow, careful, gentle, trying not to jar Q's mind too badly. It was unlike the first contact, that wild tsunami of data that could have erased him, and the quartermaster shivered a little.

::Thank you. For your protection and assistance::

And then the AI was back behind the walls, the shields, nothing but a presence to be seen but not felt.

Q felt a tremor pass through him.

::You are welcome:: he managed.

He was back inside the HUD, the screens showing nothing out of the ordinary. He was back in control.

And the shaky feeling of a rush gone by wouldn't leave.

It had been a thrilling, exhilarating ride.

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A snow shower had passed over the mountains and the low hanging clouds shrouded them in a misty fog, clinging to the tree-covered peaks. Scattered snow was still to be expected this time of the year. Brief, intense, followed by bright spells of sunshine. Water drops evaporated and turned into mist, like cotton balls stretched between tree tops.

This time, though, the snow had come down more heavily, heralding the low the forecasts had warned about. The mountains were like giant, moss-covered boulders in the distance, already capped in white. The TV and radio news stations were warning about the snow and people were bringing their herds of sheep and cattle closer to home.

Bond stood halfway up the trail that started just outside the village on an outcropping, overlooking the beach. Storm Beach, it was called. Rightly so. Waves broke against rocks and sand; the autumn storms had left wood and debris behind. Even up here, he smelled the salt of the sea and the rotting algae.

He was dressed up in warm clothes, a woollen sweater, hand-knit, over a long-sleeved shirt, and jeans. He was wearing heavy boots and had a scarf wrapped around his neck. His face felt cold, the skin stretched tight across the bones, but he didn't really felt the bite any more.

There was a faint ache from the still not completely healed wounds from a week ago. His healing factor had improved as the bond to Q had grown and strengthened. It wasn't new anymore, but it still amazed him. The ache was a reminder that he was still very much human in some regards. It couldn't block out the other ache, though.

Q was still gone.

He was still here.

He had told the Macivraes the truth: there was nothing he could do back home and he had come here with a mission of his own. He had settled his affairs for real. He had finally made the best of what was left of his parents' heritage. James Bond had leased the land to the Macivraes and whoever they felt could use Skyfall's vastness.

The lease on the land wasn't for money; he simply retained ownership on paper. Everything else was up to the nuckelavee.

The old lodge was nothing but rubble and the small graveyard wouldn't be touched by whoever roamed the land.

It was the nuckelavee's promise, almost an oath. They respected his family's last resting place, and the place where the former M had died. She wasn't buried here, but her blood was on the stones, in the ground, and to Bond it had meaning.

Nothing mystical. Nothing surreal. Just the one moment in his life when everything had changed, had been pushed down a new road completely. The Double-Oh wasn't a sentimental man; in his profession he couldn't be. But he had respected M, though he had rarely shown it openly, and she had done what had been in her considerable power to help him.

In the end she had.

She had given him Q.

The thoughts halted and he bit back the anger still roiling through him. Q's absence was gnawing at him. James listened inward, something he had never actively done before. Never consciously, at least. There had been moments of self-analysis, moments when he tried to get an inkling as to what this connection was.

And sometimes he had caught on to something. Small and barely there, just outside his conscious perception. There would be a soft, pulsing throb, something warm and... alive. It would sometimes fluctuate, reach out, brush near him or even touch him.

It was also the time he truly felt the phoenix was at peace. He could sense his darker nature, the terrifying ball of violence and killer instinct, the blood thirsty thing that was hidden underneath the human face.

Q had once wondered if the phoenix might have, should have, been a shapechanger, that nature had intended it to be different. That was maybe a topic for an evolutionary biologist, Bond mused. He would have to introduce his partner to Moira Macivrae. They would get a kick out of the other.

Now there was nothing but silence where Q should be.

Dark, cold silence.

The knowledge that his partner wasn't there for him, that the anchor line was stretched to the breaking point, was enough already. He didn't really want to ponder the silence.

Bond gritted his teeth. He refused to give in to the darkness, a different kind of darkness than the phoenix. His preternatural side was strangely quiet, turned toward the nothingness of the psychic link, hovering and waiting.

It was a false sense of calmness, a facade that would be easily shattered the moment there was a twitch from Q.

And there would be.

His partner wasn't dead.

This was Q's fight. And was it really a fight? Was it an enemy or what did The Machine want? Why had it broken down the walls?

They were being kept apart by The Machine's actions and if Bond had had a physical target to attack, he would have already. He wanted to bite into something, wanted to maim and kill and tear apart, wanted to end this in his own way – with violence and bloodshed.

But he couldn't.

It was a battle of the minds.

Him and Q, they had talked before. About what this connection between them had changed for both men, what it had enhanced, what it had remade. The Double-Oh was quite aware that his own ability to resurrect was mirrored by Q, though not like a phoenix. Q wasn't a phoenix and never would be one. He had cheated death already, but it was like a weaker reflection of the true power of the primordial thing Bond was.

"I wish I could say it's in any of the books I found notes about your kind in," the quartermaster had told him with a resigned air in his voice. "But it isn't. The books are written as we speak."

"You are writing them."

That had gotten Bond a quirky little smile. "Indeed. You are a very rare occurrence, 007, and our connection is nothing that has ever happened."

"Because a phoenix burns itself out and dies one day. I cheated."

Q had smiled again. "Not cheated. You found what a phoenix needs: an anchor and a balance. That your anchor adopts your abilities... it might be a survival mechanism."

Bond had given him an unreadable look.

"It makes perfect sense. A phoenix is near-impossible to take out, to kill. If someone is meant to be the counterbalance to the primal creature it is, the counterbalance needs to be able to survive as well."

James had looked at him, long and hard. There was a turmoil inside him, mixed with elation and hope and happiness. His quartermaster; his handler; his bonded mate. In so many ways. Q would be there, for everything, through everything, and he wouldn't be taken from him by death.

It was amazing.

And it was frightening, because it was an aspect neither had thought of. It was a new development for the preternatural beings and nothing had prepared them for this.

But they had taken it in a stride. Bond because it was how he functioned. Q because that was just him.

In return, Bond had been given his own balance, but no technopathic abilities. Not that he really wanted them. He didn't really have to understand technology instinctively; he had a handler who did that already. He was a weapon to be used, not the brain behind it.

But he had a sense of Q. A very acute awareness of his partner's presence, his soul, and that was one reason why he hadn't just dropped everything and returned to London.

He was alive.

He felt it and the phoenix, despite the rage it projected throughout Bond's soul, was holding back now.

Something seemed to chitter along the tightly stretched link, an alien, cold presence that wasn't human, wasn't even preternatural, and then there was a little shockwave.

Bond frowned.

It had come and gone.

But...

Another wave, chittering, full of strange emotions, and Bond gasped. His breath clouded in front of his face and he nearly went to his knees.

A curse left his cold lips.

And then the shock came more strongly.

The phoenix suddenly sat up and took notice. It was a sharp pull inside Bond's soul, and he froze for a second.

Q...

He was... was.. back... he was back!

The preternatural gave a groan as the sensation spread. It wasn't pain. It wasn't discomfort. It was simply… everything. It was Q.

For the first time in their shared lives he wished he could connect as easily to Q's mind as a machine could. But he wasn't a technopath.

He was a phoenix.

He was a physical weapon, Q was the brains. And that special brain of his couldn't be duplicated.

X X X

Bond was already on his way back into town, running as fast as he could, when the weather front hit.

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Big chunk of POI Finch/Reese this time. I think I mentioned somewhere that they'll get equal screen time in this crossover :)

And before you all ask, Q and Bond get their extended screen time when they're back together, in the same city, the same room. Right now they're just happy to talk to the other. Don't worry. This story isn't done yet!

As for the snow storm, that happened this year at the end of March up North in England and Northern Ireland. I was in the southwest of Ireland at the time and had the live coverage to look at.

X x X

John broke off the kiss and let his head fall forward against Finch's shoulder, trying his best to get oxygen back into his lungs as Harold's hands rested on his chest. Closing his eyes he willed his emotions down a little, feeling Finch's presence soothingly caress his own.

The past few days had been bad, physically as well as emotionally. By now his own batteries were running low and simple, visual confirmation that his partner was alright wasn't enough anymore.

The need to touch, to hold Finch in person, was strong. It overrode almost all caution and he had had to employ all his willpower throughout the rest of the mission to retrieve his lost partner not to lose it himself. He had wanted to touch the man so badly, but he hadn't.

Control.

Iron, ever-present control.

That was nearly out the window the moment they had walked into the executive suite of the Nines hotel in Portland. Root had been dealt with. Finch had used his connections to have her committed into a psych ward, awaiting trial. The police had been leaked information on the professional assassin's whereabouts and they would handle her. The woman had been absent-minded, almost catatonic, shocked to find nothing she had hoped for.

Reese hadn't cared and never would.

Shaw had appeared like she deeply regretted not killing her, but she had simply left it all for them to clean up. The former intelligence operative had disappeared.

Finch couldn't bring himself to care right now.

There had been no physical connection on the ride to the hotel. They hadn't touched, just sat in the limo, the landscape outside holding no interest at all.

No words had been exchanged.

Reese had followed Harold's lead, as he usually did in such situations, though the cerberus inside him had howled to be released, to reassure himself of his mate's well-being. It was a silent war, fought within, and he was making very sure that none of his wilder thoughts leaked out.

Checking in had been a less than complicated business. Finch's name was on some high-roller list and Harold Aves had been quickly helped to a room for the night. Reese would have been amazed, if the need to be alone with his mate hadn't been so predominantly on his mind.

In the privacy of the suite, shielded and locked away from the world, Harold finally turned to look at him, open and vulnerable and exhausted.

"Mr. Reese…"

The words stopped when John finally touched the cipher, fingers sliding over soft skin.

Reese didn't think he had been this reactive to touch before, but if he had, he had never registered it. Sex had always been a pleasure, he had liked lying together afterwards with his various partners, but this, with Harold, with the changes in them, was so very different. He could feel the touch as more than a physical sensation. It was a reaffirmation of what they had.

And he had almost lost it.

The hellhound snarled, baring its teeth, rising with such force, control shattered and Reese felt it overwhelm him.

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Q woke like out of a restless night's sleep. Aside from a faint headache just behind his eyes, he felt more or less okay. There was no confusion as to what had happened and where he was.

At home. In his flat, at home, safe.

On the couch, apparently, he added, feeling slightly out of touch with himself and the world at the moment.

Laying flat, staring at his white ceiling.

And it was close to six in the morning, on a Saturday.

He was hungry.

Q sat up slowly, frowning a little as he took inventory.

Stubble from twenty-four hours of not shaving.

Feeling grubby, which meant a shower was due.

Bladder complaining. He would have to take care of that as well – which he did right away.

More stiff than he would have wanted from not moving for quite some time, but no worse for wear.

The shower revived him and after the shave he looked more like his old self again. The glasses were firmly back and he dressed in a t-shirt and sweat pants, then pulled on a shirt like an afterthought. James' shirt.

He checked the private network as he heated up leftovers from the day before and found nothing amiss. He ate almost absent-mindedly as he kept on checking. No one had called, no one had tried to get into his flat. Everything was quiet inside and outside, the population of London just waking up to a new day.

Running a slightly shaky hand through his messy hair, the quartermaster gathered his thoughts.

The Machine was back behind the shields, a powerful presence not to be trifled with. It had left him fully intact. He would be a vegetable otherwise. He might be a technopath, but he was no match for this incredible, semi-sentient being. One twitch and he would have been gone. He had been one with The Machine and it had separated from him as if they had done this countless times already.

Amazing, he thought.

Frightening and terrifying and amazing.

Q rubbed his eyes, then suddenly stiffened.

"Oh dear," he whispered hoarsely and his mind whipped around, reaching out for a private line and dialing a number he knew intimately.

"Q."

The voice was rough, almost brittle, and filled with such hope, it almost broke Q.

::James:: he whispered.

He wished he could see his partner, touch him, draw him close, but as it was, they were separated by miles.

"Are you okay?" Bond demanded, voice strengthening, though there was no denying the emotions.

::Fine. Are you still in Scotland?::

"Yes. I might have a problem coming back right now."

The words were measured, controlled, but he heard the strain. Here was a man who was trying to stay distant, who was trying to make this a normal conversation, and who had been trained not to give away his emotions so easily.

Bond was failing miserably in that regard right now as he talked to his handler, and it told Q more than words or images could.

He frowned a little as he digested the fact that Bond wasn't already on his way. As if he had seen the wrinkled forehead, Bond added,

"Bloody big snow front."

::Oh.::

The technopath absent-mindedly checked the weather forecast and found an alarmingly big low coming and preparing to stay across the northern island.

::Shit:: he muttered emphatically.

Bond chuckled, but it sounded exhausted, painful. Like stone grating over stone. "Yes. What happened, Q?"

He rubbed his forehead, thoughts racing how to get his partner out of where he was stuck. ::A lot::

"You just woke up."

::Keen as always, 007::

"When it comes to you, Q, always is a given."

He sounded so shaky. Rough around the edges. Like the past hours had taken a huge toll and they probably had. Q scrubbed a hand over his tired face.

"How is the head?:: Bond asked.

::Still there, but a bit cloudy::

"You were out for almost twenty-four hours." Yes, the tremor was there and not at all imaginary.

::James…::

There was silence, but not completely. Q could hear the harshly controlled breathing, could almost imagine those deadly fingers curling around the cell as if it was Bond's lifeline. Right now it probably was.

"It's over," the Double-Oh only said.

Yes, most likely. And it had hurt them. Q couldn't blame The Machine for anything. It had done what it needed to survive and it hadn't harmed him. It would have been very easy for the powerful program to wipe him out, leave him a vegetable.

It had taken great care not to.

"Tell me," Bond ordered.

Q leaned back into the couch again, smiling a little at the hard words. Bond was switching to what he knew, what he had been trained to do. He went back on automatic and that was good.

The fall-out had to wait.

And then he told his partner everything

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Finch had never seen Reese like this before. Well, not true, though not completely wrong either. He had seen him ferocious and protective and close to killing someone before. The hellhound was such a ferocious creature. It was a killer, it was his nature, and the agencies Reese had worked for had made sure to hone those skills, to bring out the perfect killer.

Now his attention was focused on only one thing, one threat to their lives: Root.

The one who had threatened them before. The one who had forced him to act against his very nature, to follow her lead, to dance to her tune.

She had taken Harold by force, abducted him, held him hostage.

She had nearly killed him.

Finch had seen the expression in his partner's eyes back then, but he hadn't been able to tell what it really was he had witnessed.

Now he did.

He saw the cerberus. The supernatural creature was out, snarling, protective, ready to kill. This time the eyes were inhuman, the silver pronounced, the claws were out, and there was possibly a hint of fangs. The hellhound might not be able to shapeshift as fully as the werewolves, but it looked more terrifying because of it.

"John," Finch said softly, voice strong, fingers digging into Reese's forearm. All hard muscle, coiled and ready. "It's over."

There was a growl, barely contained, and the lithe body seemed to move even closer, between Finch and the world, protective, possessive, probably unconsciously crowding the other man against the wall.

"John," he intoned again.

A shudder went through the taller frame.

The savage expression should be frightening, but he wasn't afraid. He had weathered this before; Finch was in control, he could reign in the creature, curb the instinct and even out the bloodlust.

Underneath all that primal display was the fear of loss, the need to have Harold safe, the emotional upheaval the man was going through. Finch looked into the blue eyes, found John wide-open, vulnerable, almost broken down under the whirlwind of emotions. He saw everything, felt everything, the slight tremors, the flex of muscles that fought against the instinct to protect or to kill.

"I'm fine."

Reese met his calm gaze, the wildness slowly ebbing away, replaced by fierce protectiveness again.

"She took you."

"And you got me back. I'm completely fine. And Root is locked up."

"She took you," he repeated. "Again!"

"John!" he snapped more forcefully, placing one hand against the hard chest. He held the angry expression, the flare of indignation.

There had been so much control. Reese had been on such a tight, personal leash, it had been painful to see for Finch, who knew this man so much better than two years ago. He had seen him lose his cool on a few occasions, but never like this.

This was… personal. Intense. Hitting home.

The suite seemed too small for these emotions, too constricted, but it was their safe haven for now. Harold had made sure to rent not only this one, but the whole floor.

Nothing would interrupt.

No one could get to them.

In here, they were themselves.

No masks.

No lies. Not anymore.

Silver eyes glared at him, the features surrounding them sharp and almost wolfish. But there was a tell-tale shine to them, something beyond the cerberus, something so innately and purely human, it broke the façade of the supernatural. Nostrils flared as John scented him, as he breathed in and out, trying to calm himself, but Finch knew it wasn't going to happen.

Because too much had been thrown at the hellhound and he needed to vent. He had moved heaven and earth to find Finch, who hadn't wanted to be found, who had wanted to keep his partner safe… and failed.

"Never do that again!" Reese whispered sharply. "I can protect myself! I can protect you!"

"I didn't want to involve you because I had hoped that… if I didn't return…" His voice faltered a little. "That you would continue what I had started," he pushed out.

Reese's jaw worked and his eyes were tight. "Don't push me away!"

"I didn't. I… I needed you, John. I needed you to continue this… everything I worked for…"

"I can't continue this without you!" The roar was reverberating inside the thankfully thickly padded walls. "You are my bonded partner, Harold! I thought you understood! This happened before… before…" He hissed, exhaling sharply. "You did it again and again, and it was a mistake! It doesn't work like this… don't you understand?"

The last words were almost pleading, soft and unsure.

Yes, he understood. He understood the many sides of their complicated, ever-developing relationship. Finch controlled him, reigned him in, curbed his homicidal impulses. John Reese had been created as a weapon, had become a tool to be used, and he had always needed a purpose. Harold had given him that purpose and so much more. He had handed him back a life; he had given him a leash that didn't shackle him, hold him down or jerked him around.

He was a deadly weapon that lashed out when commanded, held back when no need for violence was given. John had been given a choice in life again and he had learned to be human. He had learned to trust. And he had reached a point in his supernatural existence where the choice to bind himself to a partner was his and his alone.

Finch had become so much more than a mere employer. He had grown from a man who paid him generously to a respected partner, to a friend, and then to his bonded mate.

He needed him as a guide and as a counter-balance and as a means to live with the destructive nature of his soul. The CIA had honed his skills and the werewolf pack had brought out his primal side.

Finch had brought it all together and had skillfully given him a goal in life.

"I do, John," the cipher now said calmly, aware of so much. "And I didn't intend to die."

"She would have killed you! She was about to kill you!"

Finch closed his eyes in pain. "I miscalculated."

It earned him a growled hiss and he was pushed back, against the wall, the taller man hovering around him with a murderous, ferocious expression. The roughness was there, but not enough to harm, to hurt. Even at this stage of his rage, his pain, the hellhound was careful how he handled his partner.

He had had guns pointed at himself, Finch mused, held by Reese. He had been told to stay away. He had been misled so Reese could handle a matter that he had decided was too dangerous for Harold to get involved in.

And always… always, Finch had been there in the end, one way or another. He had run into a CIA gun fight to save his asset.

Asset.

Finch almost laughed at that. It was not a term to be applied to his partner any more. In the beginning, yes.

Not now.

Not today.

Never again.

He had weathered all those storms, had gotten the man out of tight spots, saved his life, and he would always do so again in every which way he could. He hadn't let himself get pushed away by Reese when the man had clearly told him to stay safe, not to risk his own life for his asset.

Finch had ignored it. His instinct back then had told him to do everything in his power to save Reese.

He had.

This time their roles had been reversed. Finch had pushed and Reese had refused to stay away.

He had miscalculated before and this time as well. They had moved past a certain stage and Reese was a supernatural who was loyal to death, who wouldn't be swayed from his side, and Harold had forgotten about that very basic nature of the cerberus. He wouldn't be able to pull stunts like this again.

A low growl turned his attention from the vulnerable eyes to the very lethal form of his partner.

The gentleness had always been there, the compassion, the brilliant mind inside a lethal body honed to kill. It was what had led Finch to this man, to choose him as the operative he needed, the one person who could do what Finch no longer could.

"You don't get to make choices like these anymore!" Reese snarled, voicing Finch's own thoughts. "Do you understand? This isn't about you alone anymore! It's about us!"

Harold reached up and stroked over the unshaven features, felt the tension there, the tic of muscles, and he knew he had evoked an incredible pain.

He had known, but he hadn't considered his action all too deeply. He had wanted to keep John safe, keep The Machine out of enemy hands, and he had ignored his instincts; their needs.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

There was nothing else to say. There was nothing else he could say.

Reese wasn't Nathan. He wasn't a stand-in; he wasn't an inadequate shield. He wasn't a tool for the cipher to use while he programmed an incredible program.

John was his partner and he trusted Finch; just like Harold trusted him.

Reese buried his head against Finch's neck, claws digging into the wall behind him. The intensity of the situation was reaching a breaking point. He was shaking, all the unreleased tension waiting for an outlet.

The air was charged with an electricity that heralded a thunderstorm.

The kiss was expected, though less overpowering and commanding than Harold would have thought. It was soft and gentle and probing. It was careful and relaying an emotion that had the cipher shiver.

Finch wasn't a meek wallflower. He had never been submissive to anyone. He knew who he was, hadn't become a billionaire without making decisions that could be called cold and ruthlessly and inhuman. He had sacrificed people on paper, had built companies by ruining others. He was a shark in a pool full of sharks and he swam easily and full of confidence. He was an alpha male without all the posturing and the need to preen and prance. He was the powerful shadow in the background.

John Reese wasn't a business venture; not any more. The time where he had kept the man at arm's length, treating him as only an asset to be used, were long gone.

He had become everything and the emotions involved were something that had thrown Finch.

Grace he had loved; or thought he had loved. She had been normalcy; she had been… simply human.

But John…

John was far from normalcy. He was their lives, he was the job and the numbers and the cold, dark weapon he had wanted.

And so much more.

So very much more.

"I need you, Harold," the hellhound rasped, eyes so intense, they glowed. Silver, bright and cold in color, heated with emotions. "And I need you to understand that this isn't just your decision any longer."

Sharp teeth, soft lips, stubble.

The claws were suddenly underneath Harold's shirt and he closed his eyes at the spike of wantneedlust.

Something he had never felt with Grace.

Something that came across a bond John had formed with him.

"I understand," he managed.

"Do you?"

"I do now."

Those fangs grazed along his neck and Finch closed his eyes. The claws were tracing along his old back injury, never hurting, just caressing, memorizing. Like the other hand was slipping over the scar on his neck.

Reese exhaled, hot breath against moist skin.

"I need you. You ground me, Harold. I need this. Us. You. Everything. I need the control."

He was shaking more. Fine tremors racing up his spine and his whole body was reacting to the stress of the last hours. Of losing his partner. Of chasing shadows. Of not knowing what was happening.

"John," Finch murmured.

He held him as the stress reaction ran its course, as claws took out inches of wallpaper. He felt the teeth more than once against his skin, not breaking it but close to.

The hellhound was surfacing more and more, and John was fighting its possessive need to keep his mate close.

"Bed," he murmured. "Please."

The next kiss was gentler, deeper, exploring and soothing and so very much them. Harold let himself fall into the contact while also keeping Reese afloat in their joined whirlpool of emotions. He spread his fingers and ran them through his partner's short hair, pulling him in closer, deeper, needing this so very much it frightened him, too.

"Bed," he whispered again, his kisses tapering off, turning into tiny bites.

John gazed at him mutely, looking suddenly tired, lines in his face that hadn't been there before. It was as if the weight of the world had been on his shoulders and it was only slowly moving away. Exhaustion was replacing adrenaline and he seemed to sway a little.

John pushed away, still silent, and gently maneuvered Finch toward the king-sized bed

Clothes were shed and John almost whined, deep in his throat, when he slid into the embrace of skin against skin, still shaking.

Finch ran calming fingers down his neck, his spine, caressing smooth, soft skin and skipping over old scars. There was no arousal, no need for a sexual aspect, just the powerful pull toward each other.

John needed the contact.

And so did Finch.

"I never intended to hurt anyone," he whispered. "I never intended to hurt you. I accepted that people could get hurt, but I never…"

The claws against his skin silenced him. Kisses were dragged over his skin and Finch closed his eyes, tilting back his head.

"I understand," Reese breathed against his throat.

"Do you really?" Finch couldn't stop the desperate train of thought. "I always worried that events I have set into motion have changed things for you." The last words were almost hesitant.

The hellhound pushed himself up, those intense eyes holding Finch's unsettled ones.

"My life changed when I kept my mouth shut at an airport terminal seven years ago," he said, voice fighting against the tremor in it, his very self fighting back the old pain of loss and getting lost.

Finch saw the pain. It was almost empathetic.

"You didn't have anything to do with that," Reese added, swallowing the darkness that threatened to rise.

It was like walking on broken glass, searing and painful and opening up wounds that had scarred over once already. Jessica Arndt had been John's ticket out of a life that had taken so much away from him already, had left him scarred and less than human. He had had happiness with her, and still he had gone into the service one more time after 9/11 and never looked back.

"You lost a friend," the ex-operative went on, voice low and gritty. "You did what you had to do."

Finch couldn't look him in the eyes, evading the sympathy, the empathy, the concern. He didn't deserve the understanding. He didn't deserve the unfaltering loyalty of this fierce creature, something so intense nothing could drive the hellhound away.

Back then he hadn't been who he was now.

Back then he had wanted nothing more than to leave everything behind. He had done his part. He had refused to become involved in Nathan's wild schemes, the irrelevant list, saving people.

It had cost him almost everything. It had cost him Nathan.

John turned his face back with gentle pressure against one cheek, then caught his lips.

"Stop," he murmured. "Please."

It was a soft plea, the man wide open, so gentle, so vulnerable in a way Finch rarely saw. It was the need to soothe Harold's pain, to have him understand that Reese didn't blame him.

The supernatural carefully slid the glasses off Finch's nose, leaving him with a little less focus. Up close, he could see details, though. He could see the sharp cheekbones, the stubble, the tiny lines of distress around Reese's eyes.

The kisses were soft, probing, little nips, then Reese settled back against him, one arm wrapped loosely around Harold's waist.

"Mr. Reese…"

No, he didn't deserve this; never had. He had pushed the man away, but John wouldn't stay at a distance. He had come closer, had become a friend, had started to mean so much more. Finch knew everything about him, maybe even more, and Reese was forever bound to him.

By his own choice.

It frightened him more now than ever before. Root's cold-blooded madness, Decima's hunt for The Machine and its creator, everything… It was a whirlpool of emotions for him and John was always there.

Yes, Harold had to tell himself again and again, he had hired the man with the firm knowledge in mind that this job could end with them both dead one day, no one to remember who they had been. Yes, he had accepted Reese's possible death on the job.

But that had changed.

He had changed.

Dear god…

Reese had bugged him, damnit! He had found ways to follow him, to find him, wherever Harold was. He had the loyalty of The Machine in that regard.

Finch was hard-pressed to understand the length the hellhound had gone to.

He shouldn't, though.

He knew the characteristics of this particular supernatural. They were fiercely loyal when they had chosen who to follow.

"You did what you had to do," John repeated, voice firm. "We all did. We lived different lives back then, were different people, with different goals."

Finch had no reply for that. He looked into the wide eyes, the open acceptance easy to read in there, and he couldn't respond.

Absolution.

Complete forgiveness.

So much had changed; for him, in him, around him. The biggest change was the man in his arms, the man who trusted him with his very soul, the man who seemed to have no concept of self-preservation in that regard.

John knew nothing of him; and still he had given him… himself. He had turned his soul over to Harold Finch.

It was humbling. And it was frightening. And it was the greatest gift Harold had ever received.

John's breathing evened out after a while and then he dropped off into sleep. The adrenaline crash had taken him out.

Finch never stopped the caresses, the touches, and he felt his own mind settle.

Yes, absolution.

Maybe it was time to forgive himself for so many things back then, and one in particular: shutting down the contingency, the irrelevant list, which had ultimately gotten Nathan Ingram killed.

Because Nathan had been classified as irrelevant.

Finch closed his eyes.

The information had been like a blow to the gut, like being in that fateful explosion again. Nathan Ingram, co-founder and public face of IFT, had been targeted to die and he had been classified as irrelevant.

It had been an eye-opener.

His friend had never been irrelevant; never to him. He had been Harold's only friend, the only person in his life to know who had created the program the government had bought for a dollar. He had been Harold's only human contact who had meant something to him, and he had died because of the program.

Because Finch had closed access to the contingency routine.

He had made a mistake.

He had paid for it.

Harold had learned the difference between what the government saw as relevant and what was relevant to anyone else, an individual, someone who would lose a loved one, the hard way.

Reese curled closer with a soft, sleepy huff. He looked absolutely beat, his features reflecting lack of sleep, stress, worry, everything. There were lines in that familiar, so well-known face that hadn't been there before. Deep lines that Finch had put there.

Harold vowed he wouldn't be responsible for this ever again. He would have to remember that they were no longer two separate people with separate lives. They were individuals with a bond they needed between them.

They needed each other. To achieve a balance neither had had before. In Harold's case, the fact that maybe John Reese was the anchor he needed to touch his own creation one day was frightening. Q had told him that that was possible, even very probable.

And it terrified him.

He closed his eyes, pushing those thoughts away. No time for them now; and maybe not ever again.

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

Bond watched fat white flakes of snow blow by the window. The sky was a leaden gray and it looked like it would get worse before it might get better.

A lot worse.

The forecast had been rather vague. The snowstorm had come in unexpected and it had gained in strength in the last two hours. There had been talk of a cold front, then showers, then snow showers, and finally the weather front had mutated into a wall of snow rolling over the northern most parts of Britain and Ireland.

The end of March and snow was falling as heavily as never before in that month. People were already trying to herd their livestock back to the farms with their warmer and more protected sheds, but roads were dangerous and growing more so in this weather.

Him and Q, they had talked.

For hours.

Somehow his partner had managed to find a way to keep in contact with him while everywhere power went down and people were struggling with the weather. Bond knew it was the technopath's doing, that he had used more than normal lines or satellites to get the connection, and he had told him several times throughout those hours to not overdo it.

"I'm not," had been the calm, even answer each time.

The Macivrae's had a generator running, but none of their phones worked. They didn't get cell phone reception either.

Bond's did.

At least until the battery ran out. That it had held on as long as it did was only because Q branch didn't hand out regular cell phones. Theirs came with batteries that lasted a lot longer than the commercially available products. A lot!

Ewan looked at him, almost thoughtful, when Bond pocketed the now useless phone. He was calmer than before, knowing, aware, that his mate was alive and well, but the phoenix wanted to get back to London.

They had never been telepathically connected, but the blow he had been dealt had shown him that even without the knowledge, the presence of Q was vital, had always been there, was needed. The phoenix had felt the separation and it had been the worst moment ever.

Bond felt something inside of him constrict, while another part rumbled.

His mate.

His to protect.

Losing his anchor was an impossible thought. He had felt it the moment it had happened and it had nearly pushed him over the edge. If they had truly been separated, Bond was sure he wouldn't be conscious of anything after that. He would hand over his soul to the phoenix and let the darkness take over.

The nightmarish creature that was the phoenix had taken hold of Q, had buried its claws in his soul, had opened a link to him that allowed the technopath to keep death at bay, but nothing had prepared him for a separation through a psychic attack.

"We aren't far from less blocked roads," Macivrae interrupted his thoughts. "You might call in someone from your agency to help extract you."

"I'm not a priority," Bond said coldly.

The other man was silent, still looking at him with a hard to read expression.

"Because hardly anyone knows what you are, what you and your partner are for each other. They think you are lovers, but they can't get what it truly means."

Bond schooled his features.

"I would like to help you."

"How?"

Macivrae smiled, showing teeth that had a little more fang than was normal for a human.

"We have lived here since the birth of this land, Mr. Bond. We are this land. This isn't the first snow storm I have weathered and my kind is very adaptable."

James blinked. Of course he knew that Ewan Macivrae was a shapeshifter, but he hadn't taken into account any further abilities. Nuckelavee looked like horses, so he had assumed the same limitations.

"I can get you to the next town that has road access all the way to the south. Nuckelavee prefer not to be seen prancing around in daylight, but we aren't ghosts of the Highlands either."

Bond weighed his options, then finally nodded.

"Dress warmly," Moira said, stepping into the room. "I can help a little, but snow has never been my favorite to handle."

The Double-Oh raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She huffed and shook her head.

"I thought you knew your preternatural lore. I am a hecate, Bond. We are elementary witches, tied to nature. I can feel the shift in the elements, the weather, whether it's going to snow or rain, remain dry or become a scorching hot day. It doesn't mean I can control it, but I can give this weather a little push away from your travelling route until Ewan has safely deposited you wherever he can find help. Out here, there are a lot of us. We will help you find your mate." Her expression softened a little. "I understand the meaning, Mr. Bond. Hecate and nuckelavee compliment each other; I know what Ewan means to me."

"Thank you," Bond said roughly, meaning it.

Macivrae shrugged. "Grab my bad weather gear. We are about the same size. As a NightMare I'm rather well-protected against the elements. You'll have the hardest time in this weather."

"I'll manage."

He had been through worse. He had survived worse.

"I'm not a horse, Mr. Bond. You might need to adapt."

"I'm very adaptable."

Ewan chuckled. "I bet. What is it you do again?"

The Double-Oh smiled humorlessly. "Serving Queen and Country, Mr. Macivrae."

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"Thank you."

Harold looked up from the newspaper he was reading. Reese, clean shaven, impeccably dressed as always, this time all in black, which was rather distracting, met his inquisitive eyes. The suit jacket was off, but the expensive shirt and pants were like a uniform by now. Finch had placed an order for clothes and the hotel's discrete guest relations manager had fulfilled every wish.

"For what?" the cipher queried.

"For giving me a job."

"I believe we had that conversation once already."

Almost two years ago. After the Sam Gates case.

"We did," he said quietly.

Finch folded the paper. They were in their suite, the breakfast delivered by room service was plenty and rather luxurious, and there was no one else but them. The room was in soft, butter cream colors with chocolate borders, an equally chocolate brown sofa that had probably cost more than a compact car, and a floor covered in soft, cream colored carpet. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a nice view of Portland.

It was currently raining lightly.

Not that either man cared.

Waking up, Finch had been alone in bed, but he had heard the shower running and he had been treated to the enticing sight of John Reese, with only a towel around his waist, coming out of the luxuriously large bathroom with its walk-in shower and whirlpool tub, held in calming, earthen tones. It even had a floor-to-ceiling window that allowed the guest to look outside but no one to get a look inside.

Nothing had happened between them. The intensity was there, but it wasn't for sex. It was something else, something deeper and less carnal. The physical side of their relationship was hard to describe.

Touches.

Caresses.

The slide of fingers over his neck, a shoulder squeezed, a gentle hold of his arm.

The kisses.

But John never pushed. For all his dominance as a hellhound, for all his power out in the field, when it came to them, he still deferred to Harold's speed, to how comfortable the cipher was with more intimacy.

Yes, they slept together. John was incredibly talented and Finch had been blown away by what the man could do with his fingers and mouth alone. Reese had never insisted to go further, had never pushed himself upon the other man, and Harold was thankful for it. He knew how limited he was in so many regards when it came to physical… exercise.

They were getting there, one step at a time.

Looking at John now, that intensity was even more pronounced. The hellhound might still look tired, the lines not yet gone, but he was more in control, more alert, more like his old self.

"You saved me. You keep saving me," Reese now said in that quiet, low voice, filled with this intensity that was now almost physical.

Finch calmly met those piercing eyes. "And I will keep saving you."

It got him that little smile, that knowing smile, and John's eyes lit up with emotions they had rarely, if ever, voiced.

"I once told you I have nothing I care about," Reese said. "That's no longer true. I do now."

He didn't look away, he didn't blush, and the smile gracing the hellhound's lips said it all. Finch felt something inside of him constrict.

"I promise not to push you away again, John." His voice was slightly wavering, even to his own ears.

"Even if you tried, you've seen it won't ever work," was the amused reply.

Harold smiled at that, then turned back to the newspaper, trying for normalcy. He could still feel the intense connection between them, the hellhound's claws in his soul. It didn't hurt or was uncomfortable. It was security and the knowledge that John was there.

"Apparently," he only answered, raising the coffee to his lips to take a sip.

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The man had been right: nuckelavee weren't horses. They looked a bit like them, with four long legs that seemed too thin to carry all their weight but did, a curved neck that ended in a vaguely horse-shaped head with a muzzle full of sharp teeth, and a horse's tail. But that about completed the similarities.

If they were similarities at all. Actually, this was more out of a fantasy book than anything close to a horse.

Ewan Macivrae really did look like a nightmare come to life. Bond had once been at a H.R. Giger exhibit to tail a lead and those surrealistic paintings came pretty close to what he was looking at now. The nuckelavee's body was pitch-black, almost-skeletal in appearance, but those weren't ribs sticking out. He had leathery skin stretched tight over the thin frame and the bumps and ridges were a bit off-putting. At first glance it looked like there was no skin at all, that it was muscle over bones, but that was an illusion. The skin's structure looked like open muscle tissue. As if someone had painted or tattooed it onto the skin.

It was… disconcerting.

And a pretty good way to scare someone away, Bond mused.

He felt no aversion to touching the nuckelavee and he was only mildly surprised that the skin felt warm, not at all scaly or slimy or cold. There was nothing slick about this; it felt like very flexible armor. He swung himself onto the narrow back, trying to get accustomed to the none too smooth seating.

Ewan hadn't so much as shifted to account for the weight pulling at him.

He also had no saddle.

They didn't make riding gear for NightMares and regular gear wouldn't help.

Bond didn't mind. He had been on horses without a saddle and he also didn't need a rope or a rein. The long, stringy mane would be enough.

Macivrae briefly turned his neck to look at his passenger. That neck was a lot more flexible than a horses. He had almost white eyes that looked like a blind man's and bony protrusions on his head, but unlike lore, he wasn't a centaur or had only one eye.

"The only ones normally allowed to ride a nuckelavee are their mates," Moira had explained. "Looking at such a pair in the twilight of dusk or dawn would give the illusion of a freakish centaur with a horse's head and a human upper body in the middle of his back. You should know about truth and fairy tales, Mr. Bond."

He had refused to be baited.

There were no hooves. More like clawed, armored paws, and the nuckelavee would have no trouble making his way through the snow, even with a passenger on his back.

"The mate," Bond finally commented emotionlessly, raising his eyebrows. "Wasn't there something about only one rider allowed?"

Ewan tilted his head as Moira grimaced.

"You'll do as a stand-in. Don't get any funny ideas."

"Never would. And no offense, but you're not my type." Bond smiled darkly. "Neither of you."

"Keep heading for the main road," Moira instructed, unimpressed. "I'll see if I can get the old radio working to contact one of the families. No guarantees. I know Paul and Freddy fiddle around with their radios sometimes. Might be I catch one of them."

Ewan snorted, then rumbled softly.

The hecate looked at the sky and frowned. "I can give you about an hour, then things will get worse. This is a powerful front."

"We'll make it," her husband replied, the voice gravelly and deep. "Hold on, Bond."

He did.

And they were off, the nuckelavee bounding down the footpath and then pushing into the deeper snow, his gait never faltering.

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It took them almost four hours, despite the hecate's help, to make it down further south to the next town that had cleared roads and access to the outside. Bond felt like a popsicle by then, but he wouldn't let it show. Riding a nuckelavee was hell on his back and ass, but he wouldn't utter a single complaint about that either.

Macivrae was doing his best to get them out of the snow zone, keeping them both from tumbling down small hills or sliding over ice patches. Nuckelavee were limber, strong and quick.

Finally Ewan stopped beside a closed grocery store that was part of a gas station, outside a small town that had appeared out of nowhere. He seemed none the worse off. Actually, he looked pretty at ease despite the long trek and hazardous conditions.

A man came out of the side entrance of the grocery store and nodded at them both. He was dressed in a thick, knit vest, rough pants and sturdy boots. His broad face was half hidden by a thick beard and a cap was jammed on his head. Blond hair spilled out from under it.

"Ewan," he greeted the nuckelavee, the one word almost a grunt. "Bad day to be out and about."

"Emergency," Macivrae replied. His voice was deeper, more gravelly and rough in his shape-changed form. "Mr. Bond here needs to get back to London. Personal matter."

The man studied him and Bond met the narrowed eyes neutrally.

"Emergency," he repeated, seemingly rolling the word around in his mouth. "Must be a bad one. Well, the RAF has set up a provisional base to drop off care packages not far from here. You take my ATV and you might get there within an hour or two, depending on the weather."

"Moira pushed a little. It'll be enough," Ewan replied.

The other man gave a low whistle. "That bad then. Looking at you carrying a stranger, well, it's got to be bad. Well, come along, Mr. Bond. Let's see if I've got enough gas in the tank."

Ewan followed the two men, still in his four-legged form, and looked across Bond's shoulder as they checked the ATV.

"Thanks, Mark," he said.

Mark looked up and shrugged one shoulder. "Should be okay. Not sure if the RAF can actually assist, though."

"They will," Bond replied. "I know what to say." He smirked a little.

"I bet you do." Macivrae's nostrils blew wide. "Good luck, Mr. Bond. Thank you for your time, your gift to us. I appreciate it greatly." There was amusement in those white eyes, though it was hard to interpret as such. "I'll let Kincade know that you had to leave on business."

Bond met the milky eyes, then inclined his head. "Thank you."

"You and your partner might consider coming here for a long weekend."

He almost laughed. "We'll consider it."

X XX x

He was racing the ATV across the frozen ground five minutes later.

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

Q was tired, but not tired enough to sleep. The faint discomfort just behind his eyes had gone away. The headache had never fully bloomed. The anchor line was still intact and, as The Machine had promised, he hadn't been hurt.

At least on a technopathic level. The stress he had been under, the nearly severed anchor line, that was a different kind of near-injury.

Especially because he knew how badly it had affected the phoenix.

He knew James was trying to get back to London, the primal thing inside him driving him instinctively back home to its mate, and there was nothing he could do to help. The north was drowning in snow and RAF helicopters were dropping supplies for those closed in. The heavy snowfall was causing road and power disruptions all over the country. Thousands of homes were without power and the roads were blocked by vehicles caught in the storm. There was a lack of access to heat, light and power, which was the biggest problem for many.

Somewhere in that chaos was James Bond.

Trying to get out.

He was coming.

Q could almost feel it.

It was a fact for now. James Bond was moving hell to get back to London, back to his partner, and Q would simply wait for either a signal or his arrival home. Whatever came first. Knowing James, calling wasn't his priority.

The technopath felt restless, worried, so he connected to his private network and dialed overseas. He knew Finch and Reese were alright, but he needed to talk to the cipher, had to make sure.

And he wanted to tell him what had happened between Q and The Machine.

"Mr. Whittmore." Finch sounded surprised. Exhausted, too.

"Did I wake you?" Q was slightly perturbed.

"No. I haven't gone to sleep yet."

"After recent events I should think you would have dropped dead."

There was a moment of absolute silence, then Finch exhaled a little. "You know."

There was a note of horror in his voice, of dread, and some kind of weird, distant relief that he could talk to Q about this.

"I had a front row seat, actually. It was my reason for calling."

"What… what happened?" Finch asked sharply, sounding a lot more awake.

So Q told him. Finch was silent the whole time, but the technopath could imagine his stunned expression, his shock, his denial.

"Oh dear," Harold finally managed roughly. "I… I don't know what to say. This shouldn't have happened. I didn't think it would… It should have been impossible!"

"It wasn't your fault."

"It was. I never planned for it to happen like this, of course, but… I accepted the pain to come. I knew, deep down, that people would get hurt."

"Back then I wasn't in the picture."

"Well, yes, you're right, but even then…"

Q switched to a technopathic link, shutting down the loudspeakers. This was more than private.

::I don't blame you and I doubt Mr. Reese does::

It got him a breathless little laugh. "He should. You should."

Q was very much aware of the events that had brought the two men together, of the twisted paths, or the irrelevant list's names. They both had lost a person close to them who had been deemed irrelevant.

The Machine had shown him. He had all that information stored like he had lived through it, and it was a strange sensation at the back of his brain to know and still not really know. It was data, using his brain like a back-up server.

The human brain was nothing but a storage facility to begin with, but so far no one had ever tried to download data like one would on a mechanical hard drive. The Machine had done just that and it was right there, a file in his mind, and easy to use.

He didn't tell Finch, though. That was a topic for another time.

::He won't. You told him your reasons?::

"Yes."

::And he's still around?::

Another weak laugh. "More than ever, Q. More intensely, too."

::You need him and he needs you. What brought you together wasn't your actions or deeds, Harold. It was an avalanche of events that weren't connected and still they flowed together to that one point in time::

"That sounds almost philosophical."

He chuckled. ::Maybe. Looking through the eyes of The Machine, seeing and knowing what it does, can do that to a man::

"Another thing I never planned. I was afraid of what it might turn into if I let it develop as it did, so I erased its memories each night. But I was also afraid of what I was doing to a program that was showing such potential, such development without my influence…"

::You always influenced it, Harold. You still do::

"I did it because the imprinting was… It was getting to me. I wasn't… stable without Nathan. I felt the pressure build. The Machine was learning and it was pushing against very flimsy barriers. I had to do something."

And Grace Hendricks hadn't been a viable replacement for Ingram. She had been The Machine's attempt to make its creator happy, but the happiness had died the day Nathan had in that fateful bomb explosion. It had died the day Harold had died, had disappeared, leaving his fiancée behind to grieve.

The Machine had still been there, pushing against the cipher's rag-tag shields. So Harold had acted the only way he could.

::It doesn't carry a grudge:: Q sounded calm. ::It realized what you did. That's why it created its human identity::

The guilt of what he had had to do had resurfaced when he had told Root the truth. It hadn't abated since. Q heard it.

"Losing Nathan opened my eyes, Q," Finch went on softly.

The quartermaster was silent, aware that this rare openness was momentary. Finch was emotionally wrung out and it was showing.

::You relied on him::

"More than he ever knew. More than I had wanted. He was my front, my cover, my shield against the world. But he also enabled me to work with my full potential. I didn't realize it back then, but after his death, after my death, things… changed so badly. I didn't realize it right away, but the loss…"

He stopped and Q waited for a beat. Then,

::You know you can touch it, Harold. Listen to it. It has become so much more::

"I know," he answered softly.

::It chose you over Root::

He could almost see the shudder and the dark expression crossing Finch's face. "She was obsessed."

::She was and is more than that. Delusional might be the best term for it. Not schizophrenic, just… twisting reality into what she wants it to be::

There was silence.

::She thought she was like us, Harold:: Q added softly. ::She believed she was technopathic. She believed she could hear and feel only The Machine. She is a genius hacker, I grant her that. She has an incredible talent with machines, but she isn't preternatural::

"She wanted it, though."

::Yes::

Finch sighed. "I doubt she can be helped. She is in a psych ward, but I fear she won't ever heal. Not finding The Machine sent her into an almost catatonic state."

::Might be best for her::

A small alarm distracted Q for a second and he checked the network.

::Harold, I have to go:: he sent.

"Mr. Bond has returned?"

The man was as sharp as always.

::Yes:: he answered. ::Take care of yourselves::

"You, too."

And then he was out of the virtual world and back in reality, just as the door to the flat opened and Bond walked in. Q was on his feet, turning to look at the other man, and stopped, eyes widening.

James looked… ragged. Pale, face lined, looking older than ever, the blue eyes so pale there was barely any color left. The dark ring around the iris stood out sharply, making the gaze otherworldly and inhuman.

Something stretched between them, tight and filled with tension. There was an overwhelming sensation of possessive need and the psychic link seemed to tighten around him.

And then Bond was there.

Silent. Moving with fluid, sharp grace.

Q was drawn into a hard embrace. Chapped lips caught his, kissing him, hard and demanding, and he answered these demands.

Phoenix, he mused as he sensed the rising need. Not a sexual one, just a physical desire to be close to him, to Q. It was amazing and humbling and such an incredible feeling in one. Q buried his hands in the blond hair, kissed back, and he connection between them was filled by something he had never experienced before.

No words were exchanged.

Q could feel the phoenix rising, could almost see black wings and sharp claws, and he could feel its soul, endless void and whirling maelstrom.

It had been defeated by The Machine.

That would never happen again.

They parted and glacier eyes gazed at him, less white than blue again, and Bond's fingers stroked over his face, exploring every line as those eyes traced their path.

"Hey," the technopath whispered, lips curling into a smile.

The fingers followed the movement.

"Hey," Bond answered, voice filled with too many emotions to understand, to name, to comprehend.

There was hunger in his eyes. Hunger and need and none of it was sexual. It was vulnerable and carnal in one, soft and hard, fire and ice. It was something the phoenix could never voice because it didn't understand it either, because it had never happened before, and because it was solely connected to Q. It was that rare moment when the primordial beast and the human side wanted the same thing.

And then Bond kissed him again, softer, gentler, but with no less emotions. His lips slid off Q's, across his neck, to the pulse point, biting gently. Q wrapped his arms around his partner's neck, closing his eyes, letting him explore and reassure himself that his handler was still there.

He felt the phoenix, felt the psychic link echo with the powerful waves it emitted, and he let it wash over him. He had felt it like this before, right after Bond had come back from Kazakhstan, and this was no less intense than back then.

"I would kill it if I could," the phoenix hissed roughly into his ear, then a tongue licked over the shell.

Q forced the blond head to look up, meet his eyes. The phoenix was predominant, wild and terrifying in its purity, but he didn't shy away. He never had.

"It didn't want to harm us, James. You know that."

Teeth were bared and the preternatural growled softly. The deadly fingers dug into Q's hips.

"It took you."

"For a brief moment, yes."

"You are mine! It had no right!"

Q silenced him, slender fingers stroking over rough lips. "It's over. It won't happen again. I'm yours and The Machine knows it."

The tremor running through the powerful frame was tell-tale. The anger was there, the fury about being unable to protect Q. Bond was Q's anchor, but he had failed.

"You couldn't have won, James," the younger man said, voice low, calm. "This battle was on a technopathic level. It wasn't even a battle. The Machine never meant to take over or to hurt."

"It did!" he snarled.

"And it's over," the quartermaster repeated. "For good."

He silenced the next growl with a kiss.

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It was raining.

It had been raining for twenty-four hours by now and many were sick and tired of the water coming in steady streams from above. Streets were empty of people, aside from those who needed to be out. Traffic was a clogged mess and commuters cursed the flooded subway tunnels and the busses and taxis stuck in the traffic jams. Crime had taken a downward spiral. No sane criminal went out into the water-clogged streets right now. Aside from the really desperate ones.

Nothing of that was of interest to Finch. Or Reese.

They had flown home the next morning, first class, straight to New York. A private limousine took them from the airport to Reese's loft, braving the rain, wiper fighting against the downpour that obscured the windscreen.

John refused to ask why his place, but the supernatural side of him was immensely pleased to have his mate within his own home, to be within his own territory.

Maybe it was something Finch was very much aware of; yes, he probably was. Maybe it was instinctive, though he doubted it. Finch wasn't an instinctual man, unlike Reese, and his actions were usually thought out and planned.

Feeling calmer than in the last few days, Reese stowed the dripping wet umbrella, and hung up his damp coat. His hair was equally damp, standing up in little spikes. Finch looked moderately dry. He watched the cipher limp over to the desk where his laptop sat. One of his many laptops. It had migrated over here a while ago and it had been there to stay.

Another concession to their relationship. And Harold's trust.

Outside, thunder rumbled through the air.

Not that Reese could even dream of using the little machine for anything at all. He had no password nor a user entry. He had also no interest in snooping. He left the electronics to his partner; John Reese was a hands-on guy.

The laptop booted and Reese watched the elegant movement of the pale fingers as Finch logged in, checked a few things, then left the machine running. He knew his expression was wide open, empathetic, displaying all he felt and thought.

He didn't care.

The events of the last days had worn away his shields, had eaten at his very soul.

He didn't care at all.

Finch was back, he was whole, he was as healthy as could be expected after the ordeal, and with time, wounds would heal and scars would close again. Reese knew that as a fact; he needed to heal himself.

He approached the seated man, movements silent, calculated, still predatory even in his own territory.

"Something interesting?" he rumbled softly, fingers running gently over Harold's neck.

The need to touch had not yet abated. The flight had been hell on his instinctual side, holding back, keeping up the façade. The hellhound had wanted contact; John Reese, the operative and protector, had denied himself that luxury. He had a job to do and he would do it.

"Donovan's has changed their menu. I took the liberty to order us dinner."

That unexpected, dead-pan reply had the hellhound chuckle. "Not feeling like going out, Finch?"

"Not at the moment, no, Mr. Reese," was the answer and Harold twisted his head a little to look up at him.

John smiled calmly, placing a kiss against one temple. "Neither do I."

x X X X

A loud crack of thunder had him open his eyes. The rain was beating heavily against the windows, obscuring the sights, but that didn't seem to bother the two men.

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James was exhausted, physically as well as mentally, and when they slid together in bed, sex was farthest from their minds. The phoenix was simply curling close to the technopath, holding on, projecting maybe a little bit more need than he might have under different circumstances.

Q would never call him on it.

This was needed, for both of them.

Bond buried his face in Q's side; the tremors started. This time, they were more pronounced. Fingers clenched into the black t-shirt Q was still wearing and the shoulders shook, but no sound left James' lips. The technopath soothingly ran a hand over his agent's back.

James Bond was a strong man; he wasn't the person to break down easily, but this had hit him harder than anything else before.

The Machine had briefly muted the psychic link, surrounding Q completely and making it impossible for the phoenix to feel its counterbalance.

Q ran his fingers through the soft hair, combing it, then placed a gentle kiss on his partner's forehead.

Bond finally quieted down, the tremors getting less and less, but Q continued to hold him. He slid deeper down onto the bed and Bond adjusted his position, never moving away from him.

"Sleep," Q whispered into the tousled hair, kissing him again.

James inhaled shakily. He was still too wide open, too vulnerable. The impenetrable mask of the cold, ruthless agent hadn't been reasserted yet. He was only James; he was the phoenix. And the phoenix had taken a bad hit that had finally shattered the shields and broken down the walls of furious hatred. Emotions that the primordial creature had never experienced had flooded through its soul and it wasn't accustomed to dealing with them.

Right now it relied on the human side to handle the situation.

"I'll be here."

The hands clenched into his shirt again and Q reassured the other man with little touches.

"When you wake, I'll still be here," he promised.

Bond relaxed further, trusting into the words, and after a while, his breathing pattern evened out.

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

It was rare to see Harold in anything but a suit. Like Reese, he wore the suits like an armor. Dress shirt, vest, tie, suit jacket, suit pants, expensive shoes. The few times he wasn't in a suit he was under cover. As a technician, an engineer, a software programmer, a concierge. But he never dressed casually; really casually.

So to see him in a t-shirt and sweat pants was… strangely arousing.

He looked vulnerable, defenseless… and still something about him was… strong. Not at all like the billionaire who had more money than Reese could truly comprehend, who owned more buildings in New York than anyone else, and who regularly risked his life to help people he had never met and who sometimes didn't even know he or Reese existed.

A powerful man, a ruthless man. Finch wasn't to be trifled with and he wasn't defenseless or weak. Physically he might not be able to hold up against a stronger man, but their fights were not always physical. And the physical part was why Reese had been hired.

John watched the other man; his employer, his partner, his friend, his mate.

Harold.

Always a different last name. Always a different cover. But he was also always Harold.

He had never made the mistake to underestimate Finch.

The man he had pledged his life to, had bound himself willingly to. He watched him move around the loft Finch had given him, took in the ever-present limp, the handicap Harold Finch had had to live with for years. He had never told Reese exactly what had happened to injure him so badly. He had never revealed anything about the depth of the scars. Reese could hazard a guess; he had seen the scars after all. Still, there was so much more to this, to the story behind the visible remains.

"You gave it to me."

Finch turned, the slightly stiff movements making it a halting procedure.

"The Machine," Reese clarified, though he doubted he had to. "You gave me The Machine. You gave me access. Everything."

The eyes behind the glasses were sharp as always. John had been struck by the quiet intelligence before, the way this unassuming man was so powerful, moved so easily in the shadows, and held such a secret in his hands.

Yes, Harold Finch had power. In more ways than one. He had the unquestioning loyalty of a hellhound, and that said a lot already.

The hellhound in question walked over to him, movements lithe and predatory. He didn't want to impress Finch or scare him or push him into the defensive. He simply wanted the truth.

Finch wasn't someone to scare easily, had faced down opponents who had been younger, faster, fitter or better armed than him; and he had survived.

"I trust you, Mr. Reese."

"With The Machine?"

"Especially with The Machine. With everything." He briefly closed his eyes. "With everything, John. Me, about me, The Machine. My life."

The blue eyes, when he opened them to look at Reese, were clouded, the turmoil evident. The events surrounding the virus and the crash had taken their toll. Physically, emotionally… personally. A lot had come back to haunt his partner and he was aware that there was a lot more than he knew.

But he wanted to know.

So many things.

Everything.

Looking into the unguarded eyes, seeing the pain and conflict and the need, Reese had to fight his instinct to gather the other man into his arms.

Harold wasn't weak and he wouldn't appreciate being coddled.

"I trust you, John," the cipher said softly, eyes never wavering from Reese's face. "With everything. The Machine. Myself. And I'm honored by your trust in me, even though you know so little about me."

"You are still a very private man."

It got him a derisive laugh. "My privacy… my lives… my many layers and identities and names… they ended up killing people I trusted and loved."

Reese stood very still. His senses rose, encompassing his partner, feeling the waves of pain and loneliness and despair. The loss was dominant. Nathan. Grace. Two very important people.

One had been Finch's stability throughout his early years, a man who had never known that he was a cipher's anchor. And Harold had never allowed himself to open up and accept that he might just need this anchoring.

Nathan had died.

And Harold had never looked back, had never repeated the creative processes that had given the world The Machine.

Another had been a woman who had held this man's affection. Reese had seen Grace before, had seen the pain and loss in his partner's eyes, and the resolution to never step back into her life ever again.

"Nathan knew me at MIT," Finch said softly. "He knew Harold Wren. I trusted him to keep me a shadow, a ghost, while IFT became what it is today. Grace never did. She knew nothing of me. I kept her in the dark, claiming to love her, claiming to want to be with her. She was my happiness outside the madness."

Reese was still silent; listening; sensing.

"Nathan once challenged me, to remember who I really was, to find a normal life, have a relationship. He almost made a bet out of it." Finch's lips twisted slightly. "I said I would tell her. That she would know."

But it had never happened.

"You still love her."

Reese had no idea why those words came from his lips, but they cut into him like knives. The hellhound wanted this man, needed this man, but Finch had had two people who had filled that place before.

"I felt happy with her." Harold's gaze never wavered. "She gave me something else, aside from my work, my life, my changing identities." His expression softened a little. "But you… you filled a hole in me, John. I didn't know something like this could happen until it did. You are… you are more. You are part of me. And you deserve the truth. All of it."

John felt something inside of him constrict at the words, then expand with happiness of a kind he had never felt before. He wouldn't give it a name, he wouldn't cheapen it by pushing those emotions into handy little slots.

They were so much more.

"Harold…"

Finch's posture was a reflection of his need to get this into the open. He held out what looked like a USB stick.

"What is this?"

"Me. All of me. Everything I am, everything I was."

Reese tilted his head a little, then a slow smile crossed his features. "Why would I need to know more than I already do, Harold?"

The cipher wasn't swayed. "Because you bound yourself to me. You should _know_ who I am."

"I know that the one thing that never changes with your cover identities is your first name. Harold. It's enough for me."

"Not for me. Not any longer. I want you to know, John."

Now he did close the distance, drawing Finch into his embrace, nuzzling the short hair. He had never known that he was this tactile, but things had changed.

A little over two years ago, everything had changed.

This man had saved him, had pulled him from the edge.

Yes, maybe he was curious. He had been in the beginning, two years ago. He had followed Finch, had sent Fusco after him, but the more he had discovered, the less it had mattered. Reese knew that his employer and partner had more money than many third world countries. He was filthy rich and then some. He lived several lives at once, able to switch from one identity to the next, killing off those he found were compromised.

But underneath all those layers was the truth and with his conscious decision to bind himself to that core, that soul, the hellhound had found his own truth.

"I don't care," he whispered, honest and fierce. "I know you. Instinctively. A name is nothing. A name isn't what I feel when you are here."

Finch's lips moved against his ear, whispering a name, and despite Reese's claims, it touched something inside him. Small tremors went through his very soul and he closed his eyes, rubbing his face against Harold's head.

"You already know who I am," John said softly, voice tinged with amusement and slight loss that there was nothing with which he could reciprocate.

"A name is nothing, Mr. Reese," the other man quoted him.

John curled his lips into a faint smile. His hands stroked over the shirt, then slipped underneath.

"John…"

"At your pace, Harold," was the immediate reply.

Finch chuckled, the eyes sparkling behind the glasses. "I'm not averse to your little pushes now and then. I wasn't about to close the door on your advances. I was more concerned about possibly running a few leads on Decima, now that we have met our opponents."

"And I'm currently more concerned about taking a few days off," was the low, seductive reply. "The numbers have stopped. The Machine is free. We might not get anything for a while."

The smile was almost Harold's undoing.

The tall frame, clad in a charcoal suit and a neat, white shirt, looked deceptively slender and unthreatening. Reese moved fluidly, easily, prowling even though he wasn't on a hunt. Reese could be sex on legs if he wanted to be, and right now he wanted it. He wanted Finch.

"I'm out of work," the hellhound went on. "As are you. It might be the only opportunity to take a personal day or two."

Finch had thought it to be impossible for Reese's voice to drop to such a low timbre, to touch him so deeply, to have him shiver in anticipation.

But it had. And he did.

Reese regarded him steadily.

"Yes," the cipher finally said. "It is."

And it would be.

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Morning came late. It was already past nine, an unholy late hour indeed, when Q woke in the bedroom of his – their – flat. He woke to the feeling of safety, warmth and completion. In that order.

As usual, he first checked the network for anything that might catch his attention, but the night had passed without an incident. He had emails, half of them spam, and he pushed them into the waste folder like an afterthought. He didn't really have to be awake for that.

Q turned to look at the smoothed-out, relaxed features of the man next to him, the man who had an arm flung over his waist in a possessive gesture. Tanned, warm skin, against his own pale one. James looked young again, the lines gone.

The technopath couldn't but brush his lips over the inviting mouth. The night's growth brushed over his cheek and chin, but he ignored it. The lips beneath his reacted to the gentle prodding and the arm tightened. Wintery eyes cracked open and a slow smile appeared on the sensual lips.

"Good morning, Q," Bond murmured, rolling onto his back, pulling Q with him.

"Good morning, Mr. Bond."

Fingers slipped into his hair, pulling his head down and Q was only too willing to comply. He moaned softly as they separated and the blond man grinned. It was a rarely seen smile, open, full of happiness mixed with mischief.

Emotions lay thick between them, but Q refused to wallow in the past. There was nothing either could have done.

"Morning might be the wrong term," the quartermaster went on, lips moving against Bond's. "We have slept in."

"Hm," was the non-committal grunt.

Wintery eyes studied him, sharper than last night, more alive, more awake; knowing. Bond traced his fingers over the narrow features, his thumb catching in a corner of his partner's mouth for an instant.

"I take it you completed your personal mission," Q said softly, smiling a little.

"Yes."

"To your satisfaction?"

Bond managed a small smile himself. "In a way. Made new friends, I suppose."

Q chuckled. "Good for you."

"I might have abused my status as an agent of Her Majesty, though."

"How novel."

Bond pushed him back into the mattress, settling above him. The blue eyes were filled with amusement, bright and without shadows again. There was also this keen intelligence, hidden under layers and layers to throw off a target, something that had attracted the quartermaster to this man before. Immensely. Bond was so much more than he let on.

"How much trouble will I be in?" Q asked with a mock-exasperated sigh.

"You, quartermaster?"

"I'm your handler."

"It was a private trip."

"And you got back how?" Q asked pointedly.

Bond chuckled and nuzzled against his cheek, nipping at his skin. "RAF airlift."

The technopath burst out laughing. "Dear god, James!"

"I wanted to get home."

He wrapped his arms around the muscular form. "You would. I'm fine," he added, voice losing the laughter.

Bond buried his face in the warm neck. His breath gusted over the pale skin.

Yes, he was fine. But this had cost them. It had shown the phoenix a limit it wasn't accustomed to. It had given Bond a look into what it meant to be a technopath, what he couldn't handle, somewhere he couldn't be there for his partner.

Some battles Q would have to fight alone, though this hardly qualified as a fight or battle at all. He had been hopelessly outmatched.

He briefly wondered what would have happened if the phoenix had let loose, if Bond hadn't reined it in and controlled it as he had done. Because he had controlled it. Very strongly, powerfully.

"M won't have to know," the agent finally muttered.

"Agreed."

The blue eyes crinkled at the corners, a mirthful smile. "And you had such a promising career, Q."

"I gave up on that the moment I had to handle you, 007. You're a nightmare and a menace."

Q's fingers played through the blond hair, over warm, stubble-covered skin, along Bond's neck and shoulders.

"I'd do it again and again," he added softly. "Lie. Cover up. Deceive. Some things M doesn't have know. Like this. It's nothing relevant to our work relationship."

"Agreed," Bond rumbled, diving in to claim a kiss.

A possessive, hard kiss.

Q knew late wouldn't even start to describe the time they actually made it out of bed.

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Samantha Shaw wasn't stupid; far from it. Her sharp mind and quick assessment of any given situation had saved her life more often than she could count. Her instincts were usually right on target, though they had been thrown a little when she had first met John Reese.

The man had saved her life.

She had shot him for his troubles.

Well, that was the life of an agent.

Reese hadn't died, though she had refused to be surprised. Anyone could wear a vest. And he had become a part of her new life.

Him and Harold Finch.

Shaw had had trouble slotting Finch into any available drawer. The man was hard to grasp and even surprising him in the library hadn't gotten the expected reaction.

Because he had actually expected her; maybe not so soon, but he had.

Reese she understood to a degree. He was like her. His training went along the same lines, though his instincts weren't purely human. That hadn't been a surprise either.

Shaw had grown up among wolves; literally. She recognized a predator when she saw one, especially of the supernatural kind. While her family, her pack, had been mostly wolves, she, as one of the few human members of an all-wolf family, had never been left out. She had learned to trust her instincts like a wolf; she had run with wolves; she had trained with wolves.

Going into the intelligence business had been almost like the only career choice, and while she hadn't been part of a CIA pack, she had worked with werewolves now and then.

Until she had been recruited for a special project.

And nearly been killed by her own people.

Cabs and people passed her by, the occasional limo and one or two police cruisers. She ignored them, though she knew exactly what was happening around her. Her eyes were on her two targets, following them at a distance.

Watching the two men, sharp eyes taking in every little gesture, every eye contact, Shaw was again amazed by the closeness. She knew about hellhounds and she recognized the signs.

Bound together. Reese had voluntarily given himself to the other man and connected his life to Finch's. Seeing it, knowing it, understanding it, Shaw's decision to ally herself with those two so very different men had been instinctive, too.

She might not be more than human, but she trusted in the wolf she could have become if genetics had played along.

She could do something here; something good. Something that would avenge her partner and handler, something that would take care of the rage she felt deep inside her.

"Deep thoughts?"

The rumble, the low tones, ignited something inside her that was hard to push away. Yes, she should have been a werewolf, but she wasn't. She only had the instincts and sometimes the reactions, but nothing else. It was why she and Reese connected so well, it seemed.

Now she looked into the deep eyes, took in the faint, lop-sided smile, the crinkle around his eyes and mouth. He looked tired, but relieved, and the stubble didn't help. The gray hair didn't really age him, made him more distinguished, and despite everything, the chase and the worry about his partner, John Reese looked perfectly groomed and dressed.

And of course he had known that she had followed them. Most likely The Machine had told him; or Finch. She still hadn't wrapped her mind around the fact that something close to an artificial intelligence had been behind her assignments. That was the hardest to digest.

"It ratted me out," she stated.

"It sees and hears everything, Shaw."

"And it found me a threat?"

"No."

She frowned and briefly scanned the area. Finch wasn't far away, sitting on a bench, Bear at his side. He was watching them and Shaw gave him a humorless smile.

"You still trust him?" she challenged.

The calm eyes reflected amusement and the man's mouth quirked in a brief smile; so brief, it might have been wishful thinking.

Those eyes were ringed with silver, but no other physical evidence of the hellhound rose. She knew to tread carefully around wolves that showed too much of their inner beast, but never too carefully.

Never show a weakness.

Never make yourself a target.

"I never stopped trusting him."

Shaw studied him, intrigued. "You are bonded."

Reese didn't answer. His expression said it all and it spoke of pride. She understood mate bonds; werewolves had them. Some other shapeshifters had them, too. Hellhounds were tricky for her to deal with because of the lack of prior encounters. They were almost like wolves, but without the pack mentality, without the priorities and hierarchy.

This one had run with a pack.

And he was bonded to a man who was most definitely neither hellhound nor werewolf.

Reese had done it consciously, willingly, knowing fully well what it entailed, and he would always be there for Finch; loyal to a fault and to the end.

"Your choice," she shrugged it off, though the mystery remained. Finch didn't seem like cerberus mate material at all. But Shaw came from a world where everything was deceiving and she wouldn't judge now either.

"So now what?"

"Your choice," he said, calm and low and just this side of sensual. "You make them every day. The offer still stands."

Reese gave her a little wink, then turned and walked back to where Finch was sitting. The older man rose and Bear jumped to his feet, then he joined Reese and they walked down the footpath and into the park.

Her choice.

Shaw smiled slightly.

Only her choice. And she had already made it.

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

Q rolled onto his side and suppressed a wince as his sore behind reminded him of their late morning exercises. He didn't mind or care, though. He was too pleasantly relaxed and satisfied to give a damn. And looking at the tall, lean form of James Bond, stretched out beside him, he couldn't but smile softly. Bond smiled back, that cat-caught-the-canary smile, so shit-eating and knowing. The man was impossible to deal with.

Really. Why did he care?

Reaching up Q pulled him down into a kiss.

That was why he cared. Because James completed him, balanced him, anchored him, meant the world. And because the phoenix didn't simply use Q for its own advantage. It had suffered with him, had fought for him, had been prepared to fight something it would never be able to win against.

Good times, bad times, he mused. They were all that and more.

More than a ring.

More than vows.

It was a soul-deep connection they couldn't exist without anymore.

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Bond ran a hand playfully over the warm back, enjoying the soft sigh it got him. He felt very warm and cozy himself, the endorphin high not yet plummeting that badly. The hand slid over the firm buttocks and one finger strayed to the slick cleft, drawing a hitched breath from his handler.

"Bond…"

He knew the other man wasn't up for anything and that he was pretty sore. The past few hours had been decidedly hot, sticky and filled with some pretty good sex.

His finger still played, but he didn't enter the enticing opening. He stroked gently over it.

"Bloody hell…" Q whispered, squirming.

"You can't be ready for more."

The phoenix had the same recovery time as any human male his age. He wasn't a teenager any more.

"I'm not. But I like to touch you. I like the way you moan, Q," Bond said seductively.

Q's eyes closed. "You want to kill me indeed, 007."

"Nope, not my goal in life, quartermaster."

"Good to know."

James chuckled and abandoned his teasing caress to draw Q into his embrace. Q muttered something uncomplimentary about Double-Ohs and Bond in particular, but he closed his eyes and relaxed again.

Bond ran a gentle caress over the naked form, admiring his mate. The phoenix was a leisurely, molten black void, sated, balanced, completely at peace with itself.

It was a good feeling; completely counter-weighted by Q's nearness. One.

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The days after the showdown were filled with silence.

No new numbers.

No phones ringing as they walked past them.

The library had become nothing more than a place filled with books and dark computer screens.

It wasn't where Reese spent his time. When he wasn't walking through the streets, patrolling as Finch had so aptly called it, he was with his partner. The hellhound had this inexplicable need to reassure himself of the man's continued health and presence, and Harold didn't fight him much.

It did make for some interesting moments in the library. Especially when Reese appeared silently, like a shadow, behind him, his hands warm and heavy, touching him almost reverently. Finch felt a hot flush go through him every time he recalled those moments.

Making out… like teenagers.

When Finch left the library, Reese was a silent shadow at his side. Close, but never touching. They walked together, just like before, but a lot had changed between them.

Now and then either would glance up at a surveillance camera.

It was also a time to learn about the man who was connected to him on so many levels now, and to hear so many truths.

His life before he had become Harold Finch. How he had created the program, how he and Nathan had worked together, how he had lost everything, his work, his fiancée, his life, his ability to move unhindered. He talked about the explosion, the pain and the desperation, his flight from the emergency treatment room with the many victims, dead or alive.

Reese had listened and he understood more now. He understood the pain. He understood the secrecy.

"Who gave you your surgery?" the ex-operative asked softly.

Harold's eyes clouded over a little. "Money can really buy you everything, Mr. Reese."

He had found surgeons. He had been given the necessary privacy, had gone in under a false name, one of his many aliases. He had been the man in the wheelchair that Reese had brushed against, the man he hadn't known about back then.

John leaned down, brushing a kiss over one temple, then lowered his head to nibble against the vulnerable neck. Finch slid a hand under the black suit jacket, over the crisp, white shirt. Strong, deadly fingers played over the shirt collar and Harold closed his eyes, refusing to tense up. He had long since lost that reservation.

"There was no other way," Reese murmured, making it half a question as his digits caressed the stiff neck muscles.

His hands were… amazing. The touch was warm, professional, working out the tension.

"No."

Regret. And acceptance. There was nothing else to say or do.

The blue eyes were deep and warm, then a small smile flitted over John's lips. Those lips kissed Finch again, then he started to slowly maneuver him toward the bedroom.

Finch let him.

Their relationship might have started out glacially slow, but the speed had adapted. As had their willingness, his willingness, to experiment.

Having a partially shifted hellhound straddling him, claw-tipped fingers sliding over his skin, had quickly developed into something of a kink Harold Finch had never thought he had.

It was a thrill he hadn't felt with anyone before. It was a rush that overwhelmed his normally controlled, logical mind. He couldn't keep himself distant from the emotions, couldn't turn away from the sheer physical pull and need, and he simply let himself fall.

And the pure, undisguised desire he saw in those silvery eyes…

It broke him. In a good way. Connected him to the real world, to his own desires and needs and humanity.

And John was very willing to comply.

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There was a broken cry from Finch as he shuddered and came, and Reese knew he wasn't far behind. His vision swam as the hellhound receded, satisfied and reassured of his mate, and he collapsed forward, barely coherent enough not to smother Harold. Tremors ran through his body and he pressed his nose against his mate's sweaty neck, placing little biting kisses against the soft skin.

Harold. Solid and real and so very much his.

Finch shivered, murmuring softly. "John…"

Reese waited for his heart to stop racing, for his breathing to slow down, all the while holding on to his bonded.

He finally opened his eyes and looked at Finch.

He would never tire of this man.

Never.

Finch trailed his fingers over the smooth skin of Reese's chest, eyes still dilated. He wasn't a cuddler by instinct or nature, but he let the hellhound stay close after release, let him live out his own instincts, and those fingers were maddeningly wonderful on his heated skin.

And if he. John Reese, curled closer to his partner and drifted off into a light sleep, it wasn't mentioned. If he made a soft noise of contentment when the elegant fingers played over his hair, stroked over his neck, soothing him in a way he had never thought was possible, neither man brought it up.

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It was an almost domestic scene, Q sitting cross-legged on the large bed, Bond with his legs stretched out, ankles crossed, upper body against the headboard, reading. The Double-Oh was wearing black sweatpants with an equaly black t-shirt, his feet bare. Q had thrown on dark gray sweat pants and had slipped into a hipster t-shirt that had cost more than Bond's ensemble together.

The quartermaster was working on his laptop, fingers flying over the keys, brows furrowed a little, searching for something or other. Sometimes he would switch over to a text file and add paragraphs to what he had already written.

He was looking into the events as of late, making notes about what had happened, what he had noticed about himself and Bond, about the phoenix, about his technopathic abilities, about the connection they shared.

It was frustratingly unproductive when it came to internet searches.

There was nothing helpful at all!

He didn't really look into his inability to block The Machine. Yes, he was a technopath, but he was a bloody beginner when it came to actively fighting against anything technological invading his mind. He was a pro at doing the invasion, but his defenses were laughable.

Maybe he could recruit The Machine for training sessions, a suicidal part of him thought darkly.

Oh, James would have his head.

No, he wasn't looking into that. He was searching for even the smallest hint as to what had happened to both of them, to the psychic connection.

Bond had felt the loss; the phoenix had risen and tried to claim its partner back.

The phoenix needed Q's presence, hence the anchoring. And Q needed the phoenix to keep him shielded and sane and able to work his abilities. Another anchor set.

It shouldn't have felt the compromised bond because The Machine hadn't severed the connection. It shouldn't have felt it at all! Q's theory of their psychic was that the phoenix needed a constant feedback from a counter-balancing anchor line. Unless it was broken, there should be no ill effects.

Q blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head.

"There have been other, unexplained changes already, Q," Bond broke the companionable silence, wintery eyes watching him attentively.

He looked up and met the sharp eyes. "I know," he finally said, voice low. "It worries me."

James shrugged.

"You aren't worried?" the technopath added with a frown.

"No."

"Why?"

Bond put down the book he had been reading, or trying to read, or pretending to read. Take your pick.

"What we have is rare and has never been recorded or written anywhere before. I know you checked; extensively."

Q nodded.

"That the phoenix can be tamed and balanced is such a novelty, everything else that happens to us is bloody well, too. You have no precedence, you have nothing at all. No rumors, no myth, no lore."

"So maybe the feedback from you, the energy transfer that seems to apparently happen, is normal," Q surmised.

Bond gave him a lop-sided smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Maybe. The psychic link upgraded my abilities. I came back from physical near-annihilation. It should be impossible, should send me over the edge, but it didn't. You guided me unconsciously, brought me back. It seems only fair that you, as my balance, should have an advantage as well."

Q grimaced. "Let's just say the phoenix is a very self-centered, egotistical preternatural that can't have its balance die."

The Double-Oh's expression grew serious, eyes hard, the lips thinning. "Screw the phoenix," he said flatly. "I'm not going to let you die if I can help it!"

Q blinked, posture stiff, then nodded slowly. "I have no intention of dying any time soon, 007."

"Good to know."

The silence between them stretched, their gaze never wavering from the other. Q smiled suddenly, soft and loving, and Bond's hard expression wavered, then disappeared.

"You felt the bond," the quartermaster said.

"I always did."

He raised an eyebrow. "Always?"

"Never as consciously as now, but after The Machine attacked you…"

"It didn't attack me, James."

The pale blue eyes flared with anger. "It pushed into your mind, Q!"

"It needed my help and I couldn't handle it, 007. I'm not trained in the matter and if it had been an attack, I wouldn't be here!"

"I felt it rip you from me!" Bond exploded, hands clenching into the pages of the book and he forced himself to relax. "You weren't there, Kian. You were _gone_!"

Q pushed the laptop away and turned to fully face his partner. He met the furious eyes, waiting until James exhaled slowly, the tension draining away.

"You felt me."

"I didn't know it was there, that you were there, until you weren't."

Q touched one knee, fingers stroking over the dark sweat material. Bond grabbed the fingers and interlaced them with his.

"It's a liability," the technopath said softly, almost thoughtfully.

"No."

"If…"

"No," was the flat repetition.

"James."

He stubbornly met Q's eyes and the younger man almost laughed.

"James," he said again. "This is new. For both of us. It shows us limits and weaknesses. I'm a weakness for you if…"

Bond pulled him abruptly forward, eyes blazing. "You are not my weakness, Kian!" he hissed. "You never will be!"

Q blinked owlishly behind his glasses, so close to his partner, so close to the raging emotions of the phoenix, and he settled over the Double-Oh's lap, knees left and right of the muscular thighs.

"We can't know what happens," Bond added, voice calmer. "Because there is no guide. We are on our own and I won't let you call yourself my weakness."

"If you had been on a mission…"

"I would have managed. You were overwhelmed by a bloody artificial intelligence! It's not something that happens regularly!"

Q nodded slowly and James wrapped a hand around his neck, pulling him into a gentle kiss, lips dragging against each other. When he pulled away, the wintery eyes were warm and emotional.

"You are not a liability. You are my strength. I need you. I always knew and now I can feel you, too. It's a very nice feeling, Q. It's something I want to continue feeling."

The technopath chuckled. "Aren't you sappy, 007."

Bond nipped at his chin, smiling. "Our little secret."

The deadly hands caressed his sides, his lower back, sensual and warm and gentle. Loving.

"I need you," the Double-Oh whispered. "Never doubt that, never forget that."

Q wrapped his arms around the strong neck, pulled himself closer, their upper bodies pressed together. There was nothing sexual about the closeness. It was an instinctive need, something basic that calmed the phoenix, kept it on an even keel.

"I need you," he echoed the sentiment.

And he would continue documenting their development. Maybe one day he would find something, somewhere, on the net or in one of the many books he had already browsed or which Finch had digitalized for him, that would explain what was happening to them.

Q didn't worry about the open flow of the phoenix's energy between them; he knew that it meant that James would remain balanced and sane and alive as well. His partner wasn't a monster, a primal beast, or a nightmare to him. He was his perfect counter-balance and anchor, and if that meant a new ability for the technopath, so be it.

tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

He hadn't been surprised when Finch called. It was close to midnight on a Friday and Q had been in the middle of trying to translate a text he had found on some obscure preternatural website. Five paragraphs in and he suspected it was another hilariously bogus report that held not a kernel of truth. There was a lot of embellishment on the phoenix and nothing was true.

_Wings and flames and ashes and stuff. Good grief! _he thought. This was closer to a fantasy novel out of ancient times than anything remotely related to what a phoenix really was.

He closed the file and pushed it into a folder reserved for the more crappy results, but which might one day still be needed.

"Mr. Finch," he greeted the caller, trying to push the image of James Bond with fiery wings out of his mind. His agent would find it hilariously funny.

"Mr. Whittmore," was the pleasant reply.

Q had to smile. "How are you doing?"

"Matters are returning to what could be described as normal, though since normalcy hasn't been part of my life in a very long time, I'm hardly one to judge."

He chuckled at that. "Yes, probably."

"How are you and Mr. Bond faring?"

"There have been no ill effects from the… experience."

Finch was silent for a moment. "Because your brain was made for this," he finally said.

_Very astute_, Q thought. "Yes. And because the connection between me and my anchor was never severed. It wasn't an attack. It was a plea for asylum and protection."

Finch's little snort was audible.

"Have the numbers come back?" the technopath asked.

"No."

"Do you expect them to?"

"I have no idea. None at all." Finch was audibly chewing on something. "Have you been… Have you touched The Machine… after… well, have you touched it lately?"

Q exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "No. I haven't. I… couldn't… wouldn't take that chance. It tore down my walls, my best shields. I'm rather reluctant to go looking for it." He worried his lower lip. "Do you want me to?"

"No, not at all," Finch said quickly. "I was simply wondering."

And that was quite natural. This was Finch's creation and he had set it free. It made decisions independently now. It was up to The Machine to send new numbers or to never follow its original purpose ever again.

It was also only natural to assume Q had been curious after everything had finally normalized, more or less, and would take a look again. He could have safely viewed the powerful entity from within the HUD, but Q wasn't foolish enough to believe in safety. The HUD was nothing but a window and it would easily be shattered.

"I can take a look, Harold."

"Q, no. Not because of a curious request by me. Please."

He smiled dimly. "It is your creation. I would do you this favor."

"Don't. Again, please don't. I believe Mr. Bond would be quite upset if I endangered you."

"James is not controlling my life. I can make my own choices as I please."

That got him an amused snort and Q was aware his words had been an almost knee-jerk reaction.

"Of course you can. No offense, Q. I simply want to remind you of your life being connected to another."

"I am very much aware of that," he said stiffly.

"As am I. For me and for you things have changed. Our lives are no longer our own. We are part of someone else now."

Q was silent.

"It scares me, Q. Very much. I didn't plan to be involved this deeply with anyone else ever again. I didn't plan on getting close to someone I had chosen because of his skills, his background. I didn't plan on relying on a man who I had nothing in common with, who I only paid for services rendered, and who still became… a friend."

"No one can plan on that," the technopath said softly, understanding. These things happen, Harold. Suddenly. Quite unexpectedly. And in some cases they are orchestrated by a superior who believes it is in the best interest of two very reluctant parties."

It got him a chuckle. Finch had been told how Q and Bond had found each other by the quartermaster himself, right down to M's manipulations in the hopes that her best agent and her new quartermaster might find what they needed.

"Yes, sometimes," the cipher said. "Mr. Reese broke down my walls one by one without my being aware of it. I couldn't let him die when he was shot. I couldn't think of anyone else replacing him. I couldn't see anyone else working with me; ever."

Q smiled, though Finch couldn't see it.

"He was suddenly part of my life, part of me," Harold went on. "He once told someone that I was looking after him. That I took care of him. I never saw it that way. I thought of it as an equal partnership. I paid him as my operative, my asset, and he did what was necessary. He had the skills I lacked."

"But it didn't work out that way."

"No," was the quiet reply. "It didn't. He hasn't been a mere asset for a long time. And then he did the most unthinkable thing: he bonded himself to me. He gave his unwavering loyalty to a man who wasn't even like him. We aren't compatible."

"How do you know?"

Finch's laugh was weak, slightly derisive. "Because he is what he is, Q. Partners are chosen for strength and compatibility. I hardly qualify as a hellhound's partner. I know their history, the facts, that they are hunters and assassins. Their partners are, too. My only killer instinct is in the world of numbers and stocks. And after what happened, maybe Mr. Reese's decision to give his loyalty to me was premature."

Q blinked. "Where did that come from?"

"He accused me of pushing him away. I did. To protect him. I didn't want him to get captured or die because of my failings."

"I think that's a rather useless endeavor, considering who and what Mr. Reese is."

"Yes. That is the problem. He chose me as his counter-balance and our… furthering relationship has made him…" Finch stumbled over the words. "It has made him very fixated on my safety."

Q frowned. He knew Finch was working through something he had never consciously talked about before: the connection to Reese.

"And he hasn't been worried about your safety before?" he poked carefully.

"On occasion," was the reluctant answer. "But since we… since he bonded himself… since we became intimately knowledgeable of the other… It has increased. I believe the bond has changed some aspects, has pushed him into a place he wouldn't be without it."

The technopath nearly burst out laughing at the stiff description of their physical relationship.

"You are aware of the fact that hellhounds don't have to mate with their chosen partner, do you?" Q asked, voice light and trying to keep his amusement down.

"What?" Finch manages.

Q had researched hellhounds, sending the cipher what he had found, just like Finch had given him everything he had discovered about the phoenix. He had thought the other man had read the files. Or at least some parts of them. He had just told him he had, but apparently not the more intimate bits.

"The person a hellhound chooses to be loyal to is not automatically a sexual partner, Harold. It is the one person they trust without question. The one person who they think won't betray them. Mr. Reese was a Black Ops operative and he had to trust in the werewolf pack he ran with, as well as the handler who trained him. Before that he was a soldier. He didn't have a handler, only a commanding officer and a team. The wolf pack was a necessity to function as part of his new job, but he never placed his trust as fully into Snow or Stanton as he did in you. His trust is different from his more private interest in you. Handler vs. personal relationship."

"It was a business relationship," Finch said faintly, almost as if talking to himself.

"Which later evolved into something else. He gave himself to you, Harold. All of him. He won't ever bond to anyone else."

"I know that, Q," was the slightly sharper reply.

"It doesn't automatically mean a sexual relationship," Q repeated and drove his point home. "It means he won't betray you. It means he will always look for your lead."

Finch was silently, clearly shocked.

"As I said, hellhounds don't have to mate," the technopath went on. "There are enough examples out there of a cerberus with a husband or wife or life-partner, and someone who acts as a handler they are bonded to. One doesn't necessitate the other. You got both, Harold."

"Oh…" was the faint murmur.

Q grinned widely. "Neither of you coerced the other. The bond didn't do that. It was mutual attraction. Rather simple."

"There is nothing simple about this," Finch muttered.

"Why?"

It got him an exhalation of air that was almost an exasperated sigh. "The emotions involved have become… intense."

"Which is normal in this kind of relationship, in our kind of work."

"It shouldn't have happened."

"Well, you can try and push him away again," Q said matter-of-factly, "but it won't work. I know James and he's tenacious when he wants something. And I don't want to give this up. I know that neither do you, Mr. Finch."

The long silence spoke for itself. Finally,

"No, I don't. I'm just under the impression that it is… unfair to him."

"In what regard?"

"Everything. On account of sounding like a teenage girl with a crush, Mr. Whittmore, I… I can't be for him what he might want. There are… limits."

Because he was physically limited, Q translated. Because he thought the physical aspect was as important as the more psychic connection. Yes, it was hard for a person who wasn't of the same supernatural origin as the hellhound to understand the facts. A werewolf would get it. Finch was a cipher and his instincts weren't that primal.

Q had had to deal with primal instincts a lot longer than the other man and he had some experience, though that was limited to the nightmarish terror that was the phoenix. It didn't translate directly into dealing with a hellhound.

Well, as quartermaster of MI6 he also had to deal with posturing Double-Ohs and one-upmanships on a daily basis, so maybe that counted in a way. He knew there was a lot of bark, some bite, and a lot of masks involved in that business.

"Have you talked to Reese about it?" he asked, matter-of-fact.

"No. I…" Finch stopped, fighting for words. "I'm not sure he would understand this as I mean it. I am very much aware of who and what I am. I'm also not doing this for drama. I've come to terms with what happened to me, what it cost me, but then John happened."

"He has known you for more than just a while, Harold."

"Which isn't as uplifting a comment as you might think," the other man replied dryly. "Before he decided to throw away his freedom of choice…" He stopped, sighing. "Before he decided to connect himself to only one handler," Finch reworded, "there were… sexual partners. Now he has this single-minded dedication, this fixation, and I fear something will… happen. Because he won't take a partner outside our very limited relationship."

Q waited, aware of the pain this caused. Finch had feelings, but he was also very much aware now that John Reese wasn't limited to just him for release. Still, Q doubted the hellhound would actively go somewhere else. Reese's emotions were clear as daylight.

"I'm not a therapist," the quartermaster finally said. "And my own, personal relationship is complicated enough, but believe me when I say that John won't look anywhere else. He wants you. As you are. He has known you for two years, Harold. And he isn't without damage either."

It got him a breathy laugh. "I'm quite aware of that. I'm just working through something I never expected, Q."

"That your relationship is based on more than a counter-balancing bond rooted in your preter- and supernatural status?"

Another laugh, lighter this time. "Yes."

"Get used to it. Werewolves are the ones with fiercely monogamous relationships. Hellhounds are distant cousins who aren't. Their choice is made just like a human's."

"It's a new perspective. I'm not like Reese or your Mr. Bond. I'm not relying on basic instincts, but then… then I did something I didn't think about too clearly. I wanted John safe, to continue what we had created together. The Machine… I gave him admin status for a reason. It accepts him fully and would go on working with him. It has done that before; because of Root, too. I just didn't take the bond into consideration. I forgot, Q. How could I forget?"

Finch sounded a little shaky.

"It's new," the technopath told him gently. "It's not something you had time to grow accustomed to."

"I should have considered all angles. It's my job, Q. It's what I do."

"We are handlers," Q agreed. "Of two men who are very directly bound to us. For me, I can feel the counter-balancing effect, the anchoring. Reese is your balance, but you're not a technopath, Harold. You don't see or feel the effect immediately. He would be your anchor should you attempt to use your abilities one day. He wouldn't let you slip."

There was a soft sigh from the other end of the connection. "I understand that now."

"And you worked it out together. You won't make that same mistake again."

"No, I won't," Finch agreed, voice a little shaky.

Q grinned to himself. He suspected he knew how the tension between the two men had been resolved.

"You two…talked?" he hazarded a guess and tried to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"Ah, well, yes. We did, actually."

"Good for you."

"Mr. Reese had a few very valid points, which I will take into consideration in the future."

Q grinned more, then grew serious again. "You know, should you require any kind of assistance… you can ask us, Harold."

"I'm aware of your generosity and I thank you, but right now I wouldn't want you to test your limits once again. The Machine will contact us should it decide to keep the irrelevant list running."

"What will you do without the numbers?"

"I don't know yet, Q. I don't know."

"Reese won't leave."

Finch drew in a shaky breath. "No, he won't."

He smiled softly. "Which is a good thing. If you find yourselves at loose ends… come visit London."

"That would be a vacation worth thinking about."

"You know where to call."

"Thank you."

"Good luck, Harold."

"Good luck, Mr. Whittmore."

Q leaned back against the couch, a thoughtful look on his face. He briefly pondered the notion to turn to the HUD and have a look at the place where he knew he could see The Machine, then quickly decided against it. He wasn't afraid, but he was very, very careful. Would be very careful in the future.

He was responsible for more than his own sanity and his own life. He wouldn't risk himself easily anymore.

tbc...


	12. Chapter 12

Bond returned to work after his medically enforced, week-long absence like nothing had ever happened. He had to go by Medical and get a physical, but they had found nothing amiss. He walked into Q branch, all fluid grace and deadly presence, startling a few of the underlings and turning the interns' heads. Q just glanced at him, lips twisting into a mild frown at the reaction of his subordinates, then went back to his work.

Bond prowled through the underground room, whitewashed walls and high tech gear in stark contrast, and finally settled on the couch that was his and his alone. No one dared sit down on it when the Double-Oh wasn't there.

::Menace:: Q sent through the specialized ear plug his agent was already wearing.

The reply was a dark, hungry smile.

Those present, who had watched the silent interaction between the two men and caught the smile, quickly turned to their terminals again.

There had never been an official word spoken about the relationship between Q and 007, but there were rumors and betting pools. Some lived in outspoken denial that there was anything between them, others insisted hotly that they were an item.

Q never reacted in any way to the rumors flying around. Bond simply cocked an eyebrow when someone so much as dared to breathe a word in his direction.

He found it an amusing game to scare the natives of Q branch.

"I wasn't aware that you have new mission orders, 007," the quartermaster said out loud, voice cool and dismissive.

"I don't," was the easy, amused reply.

Q turned and shot the agent a raised eyebrow.

"I like it here," was the answer to it.

"We are not a spa or hotel, 007."

"I'm quite aware of it, Q."

"Then please be a nuisance somewhere else."

"I like being a nuisance down here."

The technopath sighed dramatically and locked down his work station. "You are here for the weapons test," he stated.

Bond's smile was all hungry and predatory again. His wintery eyes lit up with an unholy light of want and need that was almost sexual in nature.

"You, Mr. Bond, are a child," Q stated levelly. "Barely out of kindergarten."

"I like your toys, Q. You always have the best."

Q rolled his eyes at the sexual implications riding with those words.

Mitchell, one of the senior techs, was unsuccessfully trying to suppress a smile. Frankson, the man sitting opposite him, had his eyes glued to the screen in a very unnatural way.

Q sighed and gestured at his agent to follow as he walked down the aisle toward the glass wall that separated the room from the corridor. All eyes followed them and Q almost laughed at the wide-eyed stares.

Sometimes his underlings seemed to think that Q was hopelessly outmatched by this older, suave agent who was known for his womanizing, and the not so occasional man in between.

Bond loved playing with that image. He flirted with one of the junior techs, who blushed and hid behind her screen, and Q valiantly ignored him.

::Really:: he chastised.

Bond raised an eyebrow, trying for innocent and clearly failing.

::You really have to flirt with every handsome face and every skirt?::

"Yes," was the easy answer.

"Of course you," Q muttered.

He didn't mind the flirting, but when Bond was out of his department, he had to deal with the fallout. In this case it meant gooey-eyed junior techs with a hopeless crush on a Double-Oh and knowing looks from the seniors who weren't fooled.

Oh well.

xx X X xxxx X X xxxx X X xxxx X X xx

They ended up in the test range and Bond was very willing to assist Q with the tests.

He had fun.

And Q enjoyed the work together, even if Bond almost gleefully destroyed the targets.

"He always leaves a mess, hm?"

The quartermaster turned and raised his eyebrows at the woman behind him. 004 smiled widely.

"Good afternoon, Q."

"Good afternoon, 004. How can I help you?"

"I'm good. I just came to enjoy the carnage. He always gets the best toys."

She tracked Bond's movement through the small obstacle course Q had set up a while ago to challenge those Double-Ohs who wanted to try out new weapons in different situations. M had signed off on his little project and had actually approved of it the moment he had heard about it.

"The choice of armament is always yours, 004. Should you want to, I can set you up with the same."

She leaned against a stone column and watched her colleague, shaking her head. "I'm good, Q. So, how are you? Equally good?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Those green eyes were knowing, sharp, and he wasn't fooled by her easy-going nature. 004 was a deadly agent with the same background in unarmed and armed combat as Bond. She also had an affinity for everything that went fast or high.

Her smile was wider. "That's all the answer I need. We got worried there for a bit because Bond was slightly off kilter. Looks like whatever crawled up his nice ass was dealt with." She pushed off the column and walked past him, giving Q's own ass a pat.

He stared at her, feeling drawn between scandalized, shocked and amused. He settled for a mixture of all three.

"It's not a secret anymore, love. It never was."

He shot her an annoyed look, then 004 was gone.

Of course he and Bond weren't a secret when it came to Double-Ohs anymore. And it wasn't like they had purposefully misled anyone with the truth about their relationship. It was simply that neither Bond nor Q had ever come out in any way about what was between them, nor did they display affection like a couple in public.

The Double-Ohs knew.

He would have been shocked if they hadn't found out. They were bloody spies! They were supposed to discover secrets!

Bond sauntered over, looking absolutely pleased. And smug. And energized. And like the world was not enough for him.

"Had fun?" Q asked, trying to suppress a smile.

The Double-Oh twirled the gun in his hand, the smugness rising. "I want this one."

"You haven't been cleared for the next mission, let alone been given a next mission, 007. As for wanting a weapon, the decision is within my branch what an agent needs for where he goes and what he has to do."

The blue eyes sparked with humor. "This one, Q. It's mine."

"Well, it hasn't blown up in your hands, which is a big plus. And you managed admirably."

"Admirably? I have a full score."

"Like I said: admirably."

Bond popped out the clip and placed the gun and empty clip on the table. Q took it and placed it in a box, which he handed to one of the technicians who had suddenly appeared.

"Full check," Q ordered. "On my desk tomorrow morning."

The man nodded and was gone again.

"I still want it."

Bond fell in step beside him as they left the range, looking casual, like he belonged here. In a way he did. Q branch was very used to him being around when he wasn't on a mission.

"Have you been cleared for field work yet?" Q asked as they strode through the underground tunnels.

"Don't you know?" Bond teased.

He shot him an annoyed look. "I wonder if you actually do, 007."

"Perfect score."

Q felt a flash of pride. He knew his Double-Oh had aced the evaluation and he knew that Bond knew that he was aware of it. The blue eyes were filled with mirth and shared pride.

"M will probably call on you soon."

"Can't be too soon." Q pushed open the door to his office, the private little cubicle that he used sometimes when he needed time away from prying eyes.

"Trying to get rid of me, Q?" Bond closed the door after them.

"Hardly. But you get restless if you're trapped in bureaucracy too long."

James leaned against the door, arms loosely crossed in front of his chest. He looked relaxed and predatory in one, dangerous and at ease, all of it together; simply him.

"Restless, hm?" he rumbled.

Q raised his eyebrows, approaching his partner without fear. "Yes."

Bond unfolded his arms and hooked the fingers of his right hand in the hipster sweater with the vividly clashing colors, pulling him close, the left hand coming to rest at his lower back.

"Is that so?" Bond murmured, then nipped at his lips in a brief kiss.

"We are at work, Bond," Q grumbled, but he wasn't pulling away.

"We are in your office. Private. No cameras." A dark blond brow rose. "None that I know of anyway."

Q smirked. "There are always cameras, 007. Ones even you don't know about." Then he stepped back. "There's also a file with your name on it. Expect M's call."

Bond chuckled and stole another kiss, then let go of the other man. "Snooping around the system, Q. I'm impressed."

"You're so easy," the quartermaster replied and left the office again.

Bond laughed softly and followed, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed.

xx X X xx

Twenty minutes later he was called into M's office.

xx X X xx

Q gave him the equipment he would need for the retrieval he had been ordered on. The gun Bond had been testing was among the outfit. It got Q a satisfied grin.

xx X X xx

Three hours after that he was aboard a British Airways flight to his next destination, his next mission.

Q calmly called up the information he needed the moment Bond was on the ground.

"A car will be waiting for you," he told his agent through the earpiece.

"I knew Christmas was early this year."

He smiled as he switched off the comm., keeping only the tracking device active.

Yes, Christmas would be early.

tbc...


	13. Chapter 13

Their little vacation from their work was a very personal time. Going to the movie, the theater, walking Bear. Or Finch sitting in Central Park to enjoy a particularly sunny afternoon as Reese jogged his rounds. Finch always felt a pang of loss when he saw the other man move so smoothly, long legs eating up the distance easily. He had lost that ability, was crippled, forced into the role of the watcher.

From Reese's expression, he knew what Harold felt. He never said anything, just walked home with him, sweaty and regaining his breath as they slowly made their way down the footpath. It was never one of their topics because they both knew of the pain and the loss.

It was almost a life too surreal. Normal. Not them and still so very much needed at the moment.

While the hellhound sought closeness, wanted his partner always around, Finch found he had never been this open with anyone. Reese still had the access code to whatever he wanted to know, but he had yet to use it.

Finch had checked several times.

John had never so much as tried it.

It wasn't because the man didn't have questions. He had tried to discover who Harold Finch was right in the beginning of their unusual partnership. Finch had pushed him away, keeping him at a distance, Reese a mere means to an end in his need to help the irrelevant numbers. The man had shadowed him, had employed Fusco, had trailed Finch to his cover identities' work places. He had been persistent.

Dog with a bone. Almost literally.

And now, that he did have permission and a carte blanche, he no longer wanted the answers.

They were together in those days, sleeping in the same bed, even if they weren't sleeping together. Reese couldn't stand to be alone in his loft, leaving the cipher out of sight. He tried to tame his instincts, to push them down, but he was too open, too involved at the moment. There was no distance and it would be hard to force the issue.

Finch didn't argue. He enjoyed the warm body with him in bed, enjoyed the caresses, the touches, the kisses. And he clearly enjoyed his partner's attention when it came to more arousing games. John was a considerate lover and he knew how far Finch could go, how far he could push him, and blowjobs were clearly one of their favorite activities.

And Harold was reluctant to admit to himself that the thrill of having John shift hadn't abated. If anything, he was looking forward to it, to feel the power and the strength, see the silver eyes, know he did this to him.

It was a new feeling and it wasn't going away.

"Since the numbers have stopped, it isn't right that you should go on paying me as generously as you are."

Finch was drawn out of the very pleasant memories of this morning by the low rasp and shot the hellhound a look. Reese met the expression and held it. There was slight amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, his mouth pulling up faintly as if he was suppressing a smile.

Dressed in his habitual black suit, the white shirt without a tie, a coat over the ensemble, Reese looked his smooth self. Deadly grace, fluid movements, invisibly armed, always at Harold's side as they made their way down the street at a slow pace, Finch's pace. Finch had Bear on a leash, the dog looking alert and close to him on the other side.

It was… reassuring. Calming. Normal.

"Since you give away ninety percent of what I give you," the cipher said, side-stepping a woman on a phone who hadn't been looking where she went. "I see no reason why I shouldn't continue."

Their eyes met and Harold gave him a tiny smile. Reese eyes darkened and the lop-sided smirk he got in return was tell-tale. It also had something deep inside him respond, something that had only slowly crawled out of the heavily secured vault his soul had become. It was a response that was very far from purely sexual; it was an echo of what they were, what they shared, what connected them.

Finch's control never wavered. Not even for a second.

At least not in the eyes of those passing them by.

Reese knew.

And the smile grew a little more. That rise of one corner of his mouth, not really a smirk, not at all without humor.

"Do you think the numbers will start up again?" John switched topics.

"Who knows? I set The Machine free for a reason. It decides now. There is no control anymore."

Reese let his eyes wander to the view before them, the towering skyscrapers of New York City.

"There is you," he said.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, not touching, but they were close nevertheless. Closer than ever before.

"John…"

He glanced at the older man. "I know what Q told you."

He refused to answer, pushing away thoughts of what exactly Q had told him on another topic. They had talked a very long time and not all had been in relation to his abilities.

"And I know you could do it."

"Where do you take your information from, Mr. Reese?"

The former agent looked faintly amused. "Two years of knowing you, Mr. Finch."

"Your belief in my abilities honors you, but I'm not even close. Q is a technopath, the strongest preternatural variation out there. I'm a lesser model."

"Q didn't create this program. You did, Harold."

"There is a difference between programming and actively logging into this creation with my mind."

Reese regarded him steadily. "It wouldn't harm you."

"Maybe not on purpose. I also locked all doors for a reason."

They walked silently for a few minutes.

"You locked the doors so no one can get in. You never kept it from leaving, from opening the door from its side."

"No," Finch said, voice almost thoughtful. "I didn't."

"It might knock on your door one day. Maybe you should take the first step. It already knocked on Q's – and walked straight through a supposedly locked door."

That drew an almost frightened look from the cipher.

"I have taken a few risks in my life, Mr. Reese. This one I will not. Not lightly anyway."

"You know I'll be there."

He refused to look at his partner. Of course John was there, would be there if he asked him to, if he needed him. And he was more than Nathan had ever been. Nathan Ingram had given Harold the stability he had needed, had been his cover and his protection. He had run interference, had been the public figure. When the program had been completed, Finch had been so elated, had been so happy, and he hadn't had any use for a balancing influence any more.

Now… now he was working with the program again and the program had become more than he had ever hoped it could be.

But he was terrified of actually going deeper. Q had told him that he could do it, that The Machine would accept him unconditionally.

"I know," Finch said softly.

Reese was his anchor. Not like Bond was Q's. Finch wasn't a technopath and didn't need a constant lifeline. But Reese could be that for him should he decide to actively seek out the AI program he had created.

But Harold shied away from that. He couldn't. He wouldn't. It terrified him more than Root, actually.

"What if there won't be any more numbers?"

Finch looked slightly disturbed by the thought. "The list will still be generated," he answered. Like clockwork. And the irrelevant list will still be deleted each night at midnight."

Reese was silent.

"I once told you that before I found you, before I started this, that the numbers would haunt me," Finch went on, voice slightly distant. "That I felt so helpless. That I had no way of… of changing anything. I don't know what I'd do if… if it all stopped."

"We'll find a way."

Harold stopped and glanced at him, then continued on his way. They walked silently until they were suddenly in front of Reese's loft.

Finch didn't hesitate to follow his partner inside. It had become their residence for the moment and some of Finch's suits had found a new home in the large wardrobe. He had a lot of places around New York, apartments, houses, whole companies, and he could easily switch from one to another, but this was truly home. Bear even had his own doggy bed and was always happy to be around them. He loved Reese and Reese was truly a dog person.

Harold made himself some tea as he watched Reese pet Bear, then send him to his doggy bed. The Belgian Malinois plopped down easily and curled up, ready for a nap.

"Do you want more?"

The blue eyes were instantly alert, fixed only on him, and Finch kept his expression neutral.

"More of what, Harold?"

"More of us."

Understanding rose, clearly visible, and there was a fine smile on those familiar lips.

"A relationship is not solely based on the physical aspect," Reese said in that low, soft voice that could be menacing, flirty or downright sexy. "There is a lot more to it."

"Do you want more?" Finch repeated, face carefully schooled, ready for just about everything.

"What I want is you. What I want is what you are willing to give."

"That's not an answer," Finch snapped.

Reese raised his brows just a fraction of an inch. "We are physical," he finally said. "We have sex, if this is what you are getting at."

Finch stared at him, biting back his rising emotions. Some of them were anger, some frustration. He wanted this dealt with and it was a topic he really didn't want to openly talk about, too.

"You know what I mean," he said with gritted teeth.

"Yes, I believe so, but as I told you already, we are more than that, Harold. I want you as you are. I'm following your lead. Don't tell me I'm not occasionally pushing because I am, and you respond when you are ready."

"And I'm not ready for more?"

"Are you?"

Finch froze for a brief second. He was aware that Reese had noticed and the empathy in those blue eyes was almost his undoing. The man was a cold-blooded killer, a trained assassin and he was so incredibly gentle and empathetic, connected to the people they helped, that it hurt sometimes.

"I would give it a try."

The hellhound was suddenly there, right in his personal space. There was no touch, but the intensity of what was between them was almost physical.

"This isn't about sex, Harold. And sex doesn't follow a defined pattern. There is no 'must', only like and dislike. I like what we do a lot."

"Jerking off and blowjobs?"

It sounded crude to Finch's ears.

"It is pleasurable." Reese leaned forward, one hand suddenly resting on Finch's hip, sliding slowly over the waistcoat to rest over his back. "Very. I like it very much. I'm not a wild animal that wants to mate its partner at all cost, Harold," he murmured into his ear. "And I'm very content with the degree of intimacy we share. I have no heats, no pheromone-induced lust, no loss of inhibition around a potential mate. I'm letting you know what I want and you're letting me know what you're willing to try, to give."

"I never said…"

"Harold."

That voice. Smooth and silky, dark and deep. The faint rasp, those emotions.

He exhaled sharply and closed his eyes as lips brushed over his ear, his temple, then found his lips for a brief, close-mouthed contact.

"Your speed," John repeated what he had said before. "If you feel comfortable, if you want it, I will be there. This… us.. isn't about fucking you," he said, voice rougher.

Harold shivered involuntarily at the words. He knew he had been moving very slow sometimes. He had been uneasy with having anyone touch him since the accident, who wasn't a doctor. He wasn't shy of his body and he wasn't meek or blushing with embarrassment, but the explosion had changed him in many ways, not all of them physical. Having Reese touch bare skin had been… it had been like he had stepped out of his armor. Naked skin was vulnerability, giving up control, removing shields.

The hellhound had understood and he had moved with Finch. Slow. Careful. Glacial.

Now being naked wasn't that frightening any more. Giving himself up completely was. It was all about control, or lack thereof.

Reese looked into Finch's eyes. "Have you even slept with a man?"

Indignation rose inside the cipher and Reese laughed, low and throaty and very amused.

"Just checking."

Strong fingers that had killed or crippled stroked over his neck. John had once said that he could feel the metal underneath the scars. He could map it, would follow invisible lines along the neck vertebrae that had been fused together with wires and screws and plates.

"This isn't a handicap for us, Harold. I never saw it as one. You are quite limber out in the field. You wouldn't silently endure pain just because. I'm not holding back because I doubt you could keep up. I'm not coddling you. I believe I never did."

Finch gave him a narrow-eyed, warning look.

Reese chuckled softly, just under his breath. "No, I never did. I treat you as an equal, don't I? If you ever had the notion I'm not, then I apologize."

"You have nothing to apologize for," the cipher immediately said.

"Good. Because you are my equal. You have been out in the field and you were useful, Harold. Very useful. I need you there as much as I need you as my tech support." The teasing light in the blue eyes was bright and unrepentant. "But there is also the fact that some partnerships never go beyond what we have."

"But would you want to?" Finch insisted.

Reese's lips curled into that slow smile, that knowing smile, that exasperatingly smug smile. Harold's eyes narrowed in warning again and the hellhound chuckled, secretly amused by something.

"We'll figure something out," was the whispered reply, those lips back brushing against his ear.

The moment Reese was about to draw back, Finch curled strong fingers into the white shirt and kept him in place. He raised an eyebrow at the mildly challenging look from his partner. He could counter a challenge easily.

"We'll figure something out," Finch finally said calmly.

Reese's smile grew, warm and tender. Finch uncurled his fingers and the taller man stepped back, all sinewy grace and death. He left the library without another word and Finch smoothed down his waistcoat.

Yes, they would figure something out.

For both of them.

When the time came.

x X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx xx X XX xx X XX xxx x

Finding Shaw in the library was not that much of a surprise. Finch limped into his office space and tapped a key to start the computer.

"Ms. Shaw," he greeted her. "What a pleasant surprise. Please do not move the books."

She pushed the book she had been studying back into the shelf, glancing around. "It's a system."

Finch settled in his chair and gave her an expectant look.

"Where's Reese?"

"How can I help you, Ms. Shaw?"

She moved like a predator, like John, but she wasn't a supernatural. Finch had double checked, though usually the files he unearthed from intelligence agencies were quite detailed on operatives. And Finch always got to the real files, not the flimsy covers used for everyday access.

Samantha Shaw was completely human, but her heritage was there and her training, too. She might be one of the few humans with wolf traits who wasn't a wolf.

"What happens now?" she asked, prowling around the room.

Finch followed her with his eyes as he typed in a few commands and the screens came to life. He had come here to run a system check, not because he had a new number.

"Nothing," he replied calmly.

She stopped at the other side of the table, dark eyes staring at him. "This was your plan all along?"

"No. There was never a plan, only the contingency. What happened was actually more than I could ever hope to achieve."

"Freeing an AI?"

He gave her a little smile. "Would you have wanted it in the hands of a group like Decima? Or Root?"

She snorted. "Hardly."

He gave a little shrug. "So it's for the best."

"What do you want from me?" Shaw asked.

Finch raised his eyebrows. "Did I ask something of you?"

Her smirk was very Reese-like, but she couldn't completely pull it off. Finch didn't have to ask why the two former agents worked so well together. They were very much alike, with enough differences to make it interesting.

"You once offered me a job."

"I seem to remember your refusal."

"And still I seem to be working for you. Without pay."

Finch regarded her with mild interest displayed on his features. "The offer still stands."

Shaw looked around the room again, the tension still in her body, so very much like John in the beginning, it was almost eerie. She would be a useful asset and she had already proven herself. Reese could work with her, trusted her to have his back, and Shaw was a quick thinker.

"As your asset," she finally said.

"I don't think in those terms, Ms. Shaw. Like Mr. Reese you have skills I can employ, that are needed for what we do."

She smirked.

"You came here for a reason."

Shaw shrugged. "I got bored."

Yes, very much like Reese.

"Should the numbers come back I believe there is an acceptable way to deal with the boredom."

She chuckled. "I know why he likes you, Finch."

Finch refused to be baited, just gave her a quizzical look. Shaw smirked again.

The cipher opened a drawer and pulled out a smartphone; untraceable, with his very own software installed. He placed it on the table.

"Should the numbers come back, I'll call you. Let me know then what you have decided upon."

Shaw walked around the table and picked up the phone, studying the gleaming black device.

"I already made my decision," she then said. "When you call, do it with a case. I could do with a little exercise."

She slipped the phone into her pocket and walked away. Finch watched her, feeling a smile grow.

x X XX

Two days later, while Finch and Reese were walking past a row of public phones, one finally rang.


End file.
